[See  page  182 

AN',    BOSTIL — AN',    GENTLEMEN,    THERE    AIN'T    ANYTHIN'     MORE    TO 
THIS    RACE    BUT   A   RED   HOSS!" 


WILDFIRE 


BY 

ZANE   GREY 

AUTHOR  OF 

"THE  RAINBOW  TRAIL"  "RIDERS  OF  THE  PURPLE  SAGE' 

"THE  BORDER  LEGION"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


HARPER    &•    BROTHERS     PUBLISHERS 
NEW    YORK    AND     LONDON 


BOOKS  BY 
ZANE  GREY 

WILDFIRE.     Illustrated.     Post  8vo 
THE  BORDER  LEGION.     Illustrated.     Post  8vo 
THE  RAINBOW  TRAIL.     Illustrated.     Post  8vo 
THE   LONE   STAR   RANGER.     Post  8vo 
THE   LIGHT  OF  WESTERN  STARS 

Illustrated.     Post  8vo 

DESERT   GOLD.     Illustrated.     Post  8vo 
RIDERS  OF   THE   PURPLE   SAGE 

Illustrated.     Post  8vo 
THE   HERITAGE   OF  THE   DESERT 

Illustrated.     Post  8vo 

THE  YOUNG  FORESTER.  Illustrated.  Post  8vo 
THE  YOUNG  PITCHER.  Illustrated.  Post  8vo 
THE  YOUNG  LION-HUNTER 

Illustrated.     Post  8vo 
KEN  WARD   IN   THE   JUNGLE 

Illustrated.     Post  8vo 

HARPER  &   BROTHERS,   NEW  YORK 
ESTABLISHED  1817 


WILDFIRE 


Copyright,  1916,   by   Harper  &   Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  January,  1917 

L-Q 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"AN',  BOSTIL — AN',  GENTLEMEN,  THERE  AIN'T  ANY- 
THIN'  MORE  TO  THIS  RACE  BUT  A  RED  Hoss!"  Frontispiece 

"On,  IF  I  COULD  RIDE  WILDFIRE  AGAINST  THE  FIELD 

IN  THAT  RACE.  ...  IF  I  ONLY  COULD!"  .  .  .  Facing  p.  132 

LUCY  PONDERED.  SHE  DIVINED  SOME  FINENESS  OF 
FEELING  IN  THIS  COARSE  MAN.  HE  WANTED 
TO  SPARE  HER  NOT  ONLY  PAIN,  BUT  THE  NECES 
SITY  OF  WATCHFUL  EYES  ON  HER  EVERY  MOVE 
MENT  "  254 

SLONE  FELT  A  GHASTLY  TRIUMPH  WHEN  HE  BEGAN 
TO  WHIRL  THE  NOOSE  OF  THE  LASSO  ROUND  His 
HEAD.  .  .  .  AND  AS  HE  HESITATED  WILDFIRE 
SUDDENLY  WHISTLED  ONE  SHRIEKING  BLAST  .  .  "  308 


M18203 


WILDFIRE 


WILDFIRE 


CHAPTER  I 

FOR  some  reason  the  desert  scene  before  Lucy  Bostil 
awoke  varying  emotions — a  sweet  gratitude  for  the 
fullness  of  her  life  there  at  the  Ford,  yet  a  haunting  remorse 
that  she  could  not  be  wholly  content — a  vague  loneliness 
of  soul — a  thrill  and  a  fear  for  the  strangely  calling  future, 
glorious,  unknown. 

She  longed  for  something  to  happen.  It  might  be 
terrible,  so  long  as  it  was  wonderful.  This  day,  when  Lucy 
had  stolen  away  on  a  forbidden  horse,  she  was  eighteen 
years  old.  The  thought  of  her  mother,  who  had  died  long 
ago  on  their  way  into  this  wilderness,  was  the  one  drop  of 
sadness  in  her  joy.  Lucy  loved  everybody  at  Bostil's 
Ford  and  everybody  loved  her.  She  loved  all  the  horses 
except  her  father's  favorite  racer,  that  perverse  devil  of 
a  horse,  the  great  Sage  King. 

Lucy  was  glowing  and  rapt  with  love  for  all  she  beheld 
from  her  lofty  perch :  the  green-and-pink  blossoming  ham 
let  beneath  her,  set  between  the  beauty  of  the  gray 
sage  expanse  and  the  ghastliness  of  the  barren  heights; 
the  swift  Colorado  sullenly  thundering  below  in  the 
abyss;  the  Indians  in  their  bright  colors,  riding  up  the 
river  trail ;  the  eagle  poised  like  a  feather  on  the  air,  and 
a  mile  beneath  him  the  grazing  cattle  making  black  dots 


WILDFIRE 

on  the  sage;  the  deep  velvet  azure  of  the  sky;  the  golden 
lights  on  the  bare  peaks  and  the  lilac  veils  in  the  far 
ravines;  the  silky  rustle  of  a  canon  swallow  as  he  shot 
downward  in  the  sweep  of  the  wind;  the  fragrance  of 
cedar,  the  flowers"  of  the  spear-pointed  mescal;  the 
brooding  silence,  the  beckoning  range,  the  purple  distance. 

Whatever  it  was  Lucy  longed  for,  whatever  was  whis 
pered  by  the  wind  and  written  in  the  mystery  of  the  waste 
of  sage  and  stone,  she  wanted  it  to  happen  there  at  Bostil's 
Ford.  She  had  no  desire  for  civilization,  she  flouted  the 
idea  of  marrying  the  rich  rancher  of  Durango.  Bostil's 
sister,  that  stern  but  lovable  woman  who  had  brought 
her  up  and  taught  her,  would  never  persuade  her  to  marry 
against  her  will.  Lucy  imagined  herself  like  a  wild  horse — 
free,  proud,  untamed,  meant  for  the  desert;  and  here  she 
would  live  her  life.  The  desert  and  her  life  seemed  as  one, 
yet  in  what  did  they  resemble  each  other — in  what  part 
of  this  scene  could  she  read  the  nature  of  her  future  ? 

Shudderingly  she  rejected  the  red,  sullen,  thundering 
river,  with  its  swift,  changeful,  endless,  contending  strife — 
for  that  was  tragic.  And  she  rejected  the  frowning  mass 
of  red  rock,  upreared,  riven  and  split  and  canoned,  so 
grim  and  aloof — for  that  was  barren.  But  she  accepted 
the  vast  sloping  valley  of  sage,  rolling  gray  and  soft  and 
beautiful,  down  to  the  dim  mountains  and  purple  ramparts 
of  the  horizon.  Lucy  did  not  know  what  she  yearned  for, 
she  did  not  know  why  the  desert  called  to  her,  she  did  not 
know  in  what  it  resembled  her  spirit,  but  she  did  know  that 
these  three  feelings  were  as  one,  deep  in  her  heart.  For 
ten  years,  every  day  of  her  life,  she  had  watched  this 
desert  scene,  and  never  had  there  been  an  hour  that  it 
was  not  different,  yet  the  same.  Ten  years — and  she 
grew  up  watching,  feeling — till  from  the  desert's  thousand 
moods  she  assimilated  its  nature,  loved  her  bonds,  and 
could  never  have  been  happy  away  from  the  open,  the 
color,  the  freedom,  the  wildness.  On  this  birthday,  when 
those  who  loved  her  said  she  had  become  her  own  mis- 


WILDFIRE 

tress,  she  acknowledged  the  claim  of  the  desert  forever. 
And  she  experienced  a  deep,  rich,  strange  happiness. 

Hers  always  then  the  mutable  and  immutable  desert, 
the  leagues  and  leagues  of  slope  and  sage  and  rolling  ridge, 
the  great  canons  and  the  giant  cliffs,  the  dark  river  with 
its  mystic  thunder  of  waters,  the  pine-fringed  plateaus, 
the  endless  stretch  of  horizon,  with  its  lofty,  isolated,  noble 
monuments,  and  the  bold  ramparts  with  their  beckoning 
beyond!  Hers  always  the  desert  seasons:  the  shrill,  icy 
blast,  the  intense  cold,  the  steely  skies,  the  fading  snows; 
the  gray  old  sage  and  the  bleached  grass  under  the  pall  of 
the  spring  sand-storms;  the  hot  furnace  breath  of  summer, 
with  its  magnificent  cloud  pageants  in  the  sky,  with  the 
black  tempests  hanging  here  and  there  over  the  peaks, 
dark  veils  floating  down  and  rainbows  everywhere,  and 
the  lacy  waterfalls  upon  the  glistening  cliffs  and  the 
thunder  of  the  red  floods ;  and  the  glorious  golden  autumn 
when  it  was  always  afternoon  and  time  stood  still!  Hers 
always  the  rides  in  the  open,  with  the  sun  at  her  back 
and  the  wind  in  her  face!  And  hers  surely,  sooner  or 
later,  the  nameless  adventure  which  had  its  inception  in 
the  strange  yearning  of  her  heart  and  presaged  its  ful 
filment  somewhere  down  that  trailless  sage-slope  she 
loved  so  well! 

Bostil's  house  was  a  crude  but  picturesque  structure 
of  red  stone  and  white  clay  and  bleached  cottonwoods, 
and  it  stood  at  the  outskirts  of  the  cluster  of  green- 
inclosed  cabins  which  composed  the  hamlet.  Bostil 
was  wont  to  say  that  in  all  the  world  there  could  hardly 
be  a  grander  view  than  the  outlook  down  that  gray  sea 
of  rolling  sage,  down  to  the  black-fringed  plateaus  and 
the  wild,  blue-rimmed  and  gold-spired  horizon. 

One  morning  in  early  spring,  as  was  Bostil's  custom, 
he  ordered  the  racers  to  be  brought  from  the  corrals  and 
turned  loose  on  the  slope.  He  loved  to  sit  there  and 
watch  his  horses  graze,  but  ever  he  saw  that  the  riders 

2  3 


WILDFIRE 

were  close  at  hand,  and  that  the  horses  did  not  get  out 
on  the  slope  of  sage.  He  sat  back  and  gloried  in  the 
sight.  He  owned  bands  of  mustangs;  near  by  was  a 
field  of  them,  fine  and  mettlesome  and  racy;  yet  Bostil 
had  eyes  only  for  the  blooded  favorites.  Strange  it  was 
that  not  one  of  these  was  a  mustang  or  a  broken  wild 
horse,  for  many  of  the  riders'  best  mounts  had  been 
captured  by  them  or  the  Indians.  And  it  was  BostiTs 
supreme  ambition  to  own  a  great  wild  stallion.  There 
was  Plume,  a  superb  mare  that  got  her  name  from  the  way 
her  mane  swept  in  the  wind  when  she  was  on  the  run; 
and  there  was  Two  Face,  like  a  coquette,  sleek  and  glossy 
and  cunning;  and  the  huge,  rangy  bay,  Dusty  Ben;  and 
the  black  stallion  Sarchedon;  and  lastly  Sage  King,  the 
color  of  the  upland  sage,  a  racer  in  build,  a  horse  splendid 
and  proud  and  beautiful. 

"Where's  Lucy?"  presently  asked  Bostil. 

As  he  divided  his  love,  so  he  divided  his  anxiety. 

Some  rider  had  seen  Lucy  riding  off,  with  her  golden 
hair  flying  in  the  wind.  This  was  an  old  story. 

"She's  up  on  Buckles?"  Bostil  queried,  turning  sharply 
to  the  speaker. 

"Reckon  so,"  was  the  calm  reply. 

Bostil  swore.  He  did  not  have  a  rider  who  could  equal 
him  in  profanity. 

' '  Farlane,  you'd  orders.  Lucy's  not  to  ride  them  bosses, 
least  of  all  Buckles.  He  ain't  safe  even  for  a  man." 

"Wai,  he's  safe  fer  Lucy." 

"But  didn't  I  say  no?" 

"Boss,  it's  likely  you  did,  fer  you  talk  a  lot,"  replied 
Farlane.  "Lucy  pulled  my  hat  down  over  my  eyes — 
told  me  to  go  to  thunder — an'  then,  zip!  she  an'  Buckles 
were  dustin'  it  fer  the  sage." 

"She's  got  to  keep  out  of  the  sage,"  growled  Bostil. 
"It  ain't  safe  for  her  out  there.  .  .  .  Where's  my 
glass?  I  want  to  take  a  look  at  the  slope.  Where's  my 
glass?" 

4 


WILDFIRE 

The  glass  could  not  be  found. 

"What's  makin'  them  dust-clouds  on  the  sage?  An 
telope?  .  .  .  Holley,  you  used  to  have  eyes  better  'n  me. 
Use  them,  will  you?" 

A  gray-haired,  hawk-eyed  rider,  lean  and  worn,  ap 
proached  with  clinking  spurs. 

"Down  in  there,"  said  Bostil,  pointing. 

"Thet's  a  bunch  of  hosses,"  replied  Holley. 

"Wild  hosses?" 

"I  take  'em  so,  seein'  how  they  throw  thet  dust." 

"Huh!  I  don't  like  it.  Lucy  oughtn't  be  ridin'  round 
alone." 

"Wai,  boss,  who  could  catch  her  up  on  Buckles?  Lucy 
can  ride.  An'  there's  the  King  an'  Sarch  right  under 
your  nose — the  only  hosses  on  the  sage  thet  could  outrun 
Buckles." 

Farlane  knew  how  to  mollify  his  master  and  long  habit 
had  made  him  proficient.  Bostil's  eyes  flashed.  He  was 
proud  of  Lucy's  power  over  a  horse.  The  story  Bostil 
first  told  to  any  stranger  happening  by  the  Ford  was  how 
Lucy  had  been  born  during  a  wild  ride — almost,  as  it 
were,  on  the  back  of  a  horse.  That,  at  least,  was  her 
fame,  and  the  riders  swore  she  was  a  worthy  daughter 
of  such  a  mother.  Then,  as  Farlane  well  knew,  a  quick 
road  to  Bostil's  good  will  was  to  praise  one  of  his  favorites. 

"Reckon  you  spoke  sense  for  once,  Farlane,"  replied 
Bostil,  with  relief.  "I  wasn't  thinkin'  so  much  of  danger 
for  Lucy.  .  .  .  But  she  lets  thet  half-witted  Creech  go 
with  her." 

"No,  boss,  you're  wrong,"  put  in  Holley,  earnestly. 
"  I  know  the  girl.  She  has  no  use  fer  Joel.  But  he  jest 
runs  after  her."  • 

"An'  he's  harmless,"  added  Farlane. 

"We  ain't  agreed,"  rejoined  Bostil,  quickly.  "What 
do  you  say,  Holley?" 

The  old  rider  looked  thoughtful  and  did  not  speak  for 
long. 

5 


WILDFIRE 

1  'Wai,  yes  an'  no,"  he  answered,  finally.  "I  reckon 
Lucy  could  make  a  man  out  of  Joel.  But  she  doesn't 
care  fer  him,  an'  thet  settles  thet.  .  .  .  An'  maybe  Joel's 
leanin'  toward  the  bad." 

"If  she  meets  him  again  I'll  rope  her  in  the  house," 
declared  Bostil. 

Another  clear-eyed  rider  drew  Bostil 's  attention  from 
the  gray  waste  of  rolling  sage. 

"Bostil,  look!  Look  at  the  King!  He's  watchin'  fer 
somethin*.  .  .  .  An'  so's  Sarch." 

The  two  horses  named  were  facing  a  ridge  some  few 
hundred  yards  distant,  and  their  heads  were  aloft  and  ears 
straight  forward.  Sage  King  whistled  shrilly  and  Sarche- 
don  began  to  prance. 

"Boys,  you'd  better  drive  them  in,"  said  Bostil. 
"They'd  like  nothin*  so  well  as  gettin'  out  on  the  sage. 
.  .  .  Hullo!  what's  thet  shootin'  up  behind  the  ridge?" 

"  No  more  'n  Buckles  with  Lucy  makin'  him  run  some," 
replied  Holley,  with  a  dry  laugh. 

"If  it  ain't!  .  .  .  Lord!  look  at  him  come!" 

Bostil's  anger  and  anxiety  might  never  have  been. 
The  light  of  the  upland  rider's  joy  shone  in  his  keen  gaze. 
The  slope  before  him  was  open,  and  almost  level,  down  to 
the  ridge  that  had  hidden  the  missing  girl  and  horse. 
Buckles  was  running  for  the  love  of  running,  as  the  girl 
low  down  over  his  neck  was  riding  for  the  love  of  riding. 
The  Sage  King  whistled  again,  and  shot  off  with  graceful 
sweep  to  meet  them;  Sarchedon  plunged  after  him;  Two 
Face  and  Plume  jealously  trooped  down,  too,  but  Dusty 
Ben,  after  a  toss  of  his  head,  went  on  grazing.  The 
gray  and  the  black  met  Buckles  and  could  not  turn  in 
time  to  stay  with  him.  A  girl's  gay  scream  pealed  up  the 
slope,  and  Buckles  went  lower  and  faster.  Sarchedon  was 
left  behind.  Then  the  gray  King  began  to  run  as  if  before 
he  had  been  loping.  He  was  beautiful  in  action.  This 
was  play — a  game — a  race — plainly  dominated  by  the 
spirit  of  the  girl.  Lucy's  hair  was  a  bright  stream  of  gold 

6 


WILDFIRE 

in  the  wind.  She  rode  bareback.  It  seemed  that  she 
was  hunched  low  over  Buckles  with  her  knees  high  on  his 
back — scarcely  astride  him.  at  all.  Yet  her  motion  was 
one  with  the  horse.  Again  that  wild,  gay  scream  pealed 
out — call  or  laugh  or  challenge.  Sage  King,  with  a  fleet- 
ness  that  made  the  eyes  of  Bostil  and  his  riders  glisten, 
took  the  lead,  and  then  sheered  off  to  slow  down,  while 
Buckles  thundered  past.  Lucy  was  pulling  him  hard,  and 
had  him  plunging  to  a  halt,  when  the  rider  Holley  ran  out 
to  grasp  his  bridle.  Buckles  was  snorting  and  his  ears 
were  laid  back.  He  pounded  the  ground  and  scattered  the 
pebbles. 

"No  use,  Lucy,'*  said  Bostil.  "You  can't  beat  the 
King  at  your  own  game,  even  with  a  runnin'  start." 

Lucy  BostiTs  eyes  were  blue,  as  keen  as  her  father's, 
and  now  they  flashed  like  his.  She  had  a  hand  twisted 
in  the  horse's  long  mane,  and  as,  lithe  and  supple,  she 
slipped  a  knee  across  his  broad  back  she  shook  a  little 
gantleted  fist  at  BostiTs  gray  racer. 

"Sage  King,  I  hate  you!"  she  called,  as  if  the  horse 
were  human.  "And  I'LL  beat  you  some  day!" 

Bostil  swore  by  the  gods  his  Sage  King  was  the  swiftest 
horse  in  all  that  wild  upland  country  of  wonderful  horses. 
He  swore  the  great  gray  could  look  back  over  his  shoulder 
and  run  away  from  any  broken  horse  known  to  the 
riders. 

Bostil  himself  was  half  horse,  and  the  half  of  him  that 
was  human  he  divided  between  love  of  his  fleet  racers 
and  his  daughter  Lucy.  He  had  seen  years  of  hard  riding 
on  that  wild  Utah  border  where,  in  those  days,  a  horse 
meant  all  the  world  to  a  man.  A  lucky  strike  of  grassy 
upland  and  good  water  south  of  the  Rio  Colorado  made 
him  rich  in  all  that  he  cared  to  own.  The  Indians,  yet 
unspoiled  by  white  men,  were  friendly.  Bostil  built  a 
boat  at  the  Indian  crossing  of  the  Colorado  and  the  place 
became  known  as  Bostil's  Ford.  From  time  to  time  his 


WILDFIRE 

personality  and  his  reputation  and  his  need  brought  horse- 
hunters,  riders,  sheep-herders,  and  men  of  pioneer  spirit, 
as  well  as  wandering  desert  travelers,  to  the  Ford,  and 
the  lonely,  isolated  hamlet  slowly  grew.  North  of  the 
river  it  was  more  than  two  hundred  miles  to  the  nearest 
little  settlement,  with  only  a  few  lonely  ranches  on  the 
road;  to  the  west  were  several  villages,  equally  distant, 
but  cut  off  for  two  months  at  a  time  by  the  raging  Colo 
rado,  flooded  by  melting  snow  up  in  the  mountains. 
Eastward  from  the  Ford  stretched  a  ghastly,  broken, 
unknown  desert  of  canons.  Southward  rolled  the  beauti 
ful  uplands,  with  valleys  of  sage  and  grass,  and  plateaus 
of  pine  and  cedar,  until  this  rich  rolling  gray  and  green 
range  broke  sharply  on  a  purple  horizon  line  of  upflung 
rocky  ramparts  and  walls  and  monuments,  wild,  dim, 
and  mysterious. 

BostiTs  cattle  and  horses  were  numberless,  and  many 
as  were  his  riders,  he  always  could  use  more.  But  most 
riders  did  not  abide  long  with  Bostil,  first  because  some 
of  them  were  of  a  wandering  breed,  wild-horse  hunters 
themselves;  and  secondly,  Bostil  had  two  great  faults: 
he  seldom  paid  a  rider  in  money,  and  he  never  permitted 
one  to  own  a  fleet  horse.  He  wanted  to  own  all  the  fast 
horses  himself.  And  in  those  days  every  rider,  especially 
a  wild-horse  hunter,  loved  his  steed  as  part  of  himself. 
If  there  was  a  difference  between  Bostil  and  any  rider 
of  the  sage,  it  was  that,  as  he  had  more  horses,  so  he  had 
more  love. 

Whenever  Bostil  could  not  get  possession  of  a  horse  he 
coveted,  either  by  purchase  or  trade,  he  invariably  ac 
quired  a  grievance  toward  the  owner.  This  happened 
often,  for  riders  were  loath  to  part  with  their  favorites. 
And  he  had  made  more  than  one  enemy  by  his  persistent 
nagging.  It  could  not  be  said,  however,  that  he  sought 
to  drive  hard  bargains.  Bostil  would  pay  any  price  asked 
for  a  horse. 

Across  the  Colorado,  in  a  high,  red-walled  canon  open- 

8 


WILDFIRE 

ing  upon  the  river,  lived  a  poor  sheep-herder  and  horse- 
trader  named  Creech.  This  man  owned  a  number  of 
thoroughbreds,  two  of  which  he  would  not  part  with  for 
all  the  gold  in  the  uplands.  These  racers,  Blue  Roan  and 
Peg,  had  been  captured  wild  on  the  ranges  by  Ute  Indians 
and  broken  to  racing.  They  were  still  young  and  getting 
faster  every  year.  Bostil  wanted  them  because  he 
coveted  them  and  because  he  feared  them.  It  would 
have  been  a  terrible  blow  to  him  if  any  horse  ever  beat 
the  gray.  But  Creech  laughed  at  all  offers  and  taunted 
Bostil  with  a  boast  that  in  another  summer  he  would  see 
a  horse  out  in  front  of  the  King. 

To  complicate  matters  and  lead  rivalry  into  hatred 
young  Joel  Creech,  a  great  horseman,  but  worthless  in  the 
eyes  of  all  save  his  father,  had  been  heard  to  say  that 
some  day  he  would  force  a  race  between  the  King  and 
Blue  Roan.  And  that  threat  had  been  taken  in  various 
ways.  It  alienated  Bostil  beyond  all  hope  of  recon 
ciliation.  It  made  Lucy  Bostil  laugh  and  look  sweetly 
mysterious.  She  had  no  enemies,  and  she  liked  every 
body.  It  was  even  gossiped  by  the  women  of  Bostil's 
Ford  that  she  had  more  than  liking  for  the  idle  Joel. 
But  the  husbands  of  these  gossips  said  Lucy  was  only 
tender-hearted.  Among  the  riders,  when  they  sat  around 
their  lonely  camp-fires,  or  lounged  at  the  corrals  of  the 
Ford,  there  was  speculation  in  regard  to  this  race  hinted 
by  Joel  Creech.  There  never  had  been  a  race  between 
the  King  and  Blue  Roan,  and  there  never  would  be, 
unless  Joel  were  to  ride  off  with  Lucy.  In  that  case 
there  would  be  the  grandest  race  ever  run  on  the  up 
lands,  with  the  odds  against  Blue  Roan  only  if  he  carried 
double.  If  Joel  put  Lucy  up  on  the  Roan  and  he  rode 
Peg  there  would  be  another  story.  Lucy  Bostil  was  a  slip 
of  a  girl,  born  on  a  horse,  as  strong  and  supple  as  an  Ind 
ian,  and  she  could  ride  like  a  burr  sticking  in  a  horse's 
mane.  With  Blue  Roan  carrying  her  light  weight  she 
might  run  away  from  any  one  up  on  the  King — which 

9 


WILDFIRE 

for  Bostil  would  be  a  double  tragedy,  equally  in  the  loss 
of  his  daughter  and  the  beating  of  his  best-beloved  racer. 
But  with  Joel  on  Peg,  such  a  race  would  end  in  heart 
break  for  all  concerned,  for  the  King  would  outrun  Peg, 
and  that  would  bring  riders  within  gunshot. 

It  had  always  been  a  fascinating  subject,  this  long- 
looked-for  race.  It  grew  more  so  when  Joel's  infatuation 
for  Lucy  became  known.  There  were  fewer  riders  who 
believed  Lucy  might  elope  with  Joel  than  there  were 
who  believed  Joel  might  steal  his  father's  horses.  But  all 
the  riders  who  loved  horses  and  all  the  women  who 
loved  gossip  were  united  in  at  least  one  thing,  and  that 
was  that  something  like  a  race  or  a  romance  would  soon 
disrupt  the  peaceful,  sleepy  tenor  of  Bostil's  Ford. 

In  addition  to  Bostil's  growing  hatred  for  the  Creeches, 
he  had  a  great  fear  of  Cordts,  the  horse-thief.  A  fear  ever 
restless,  ever  watchful.  Cordts  hid  back  in  the  untrodden 
ways.  He  had  secret  friends  among  the  riders  of  the 
ranges,  faithful  followers  back  in  the  canon  camps,  gold 
for  the  digging,  cattle  by  the  thousand,  and  fast  horses. 
He  had  always  gotten  what  he  wanted — except  one  thing. 
That  was  a  certain  horse.  And  the  horse  was  Sage  King. 

Cordts  was  a  bad  man,  a  product  of  the  early  gold-fields 
of  California  and  Idaho,  an  outcast  from  that  evil  wave 
of  wanderers  retreating  back  over  the  trails  so  madly 
traveled  westward.  He  became  a  lord  over  the  free 
ranges.  But  more  than  all  else  he  was  a  rider.  He 
knew  a  horse.  He  was  as  much  horse  as  Bostil.  Cordts 
rode  into  this  wild  free-range  country,  where  he  had  been 
heard  to  say  that  a  horse-thief  was  meaner  than  a  poisoned 
coyote.  Nevertheless,  he  became  a  horse -thief.  The 
passion  he  had  conceived  for  the  Sage  King  was  the 
passion  of  a  man  for  an  unattainable  woman.  Cordts 
swore  that  he  would  never  rest,  that  he  would  not  die, 
till  he  owned  the  King.  So  there  was  reason  for  Bostil's 
great  fear. 


CHAPTER  II 

BOSTIL  went  toward  the  house  with  his  daughter, 
turning  at  the  door  to  call  a  last  word  to  his  riders 
about  the  care  of  his  horses. 

The  house  was  a  low,  flat,  wide  structure,  with  a  cor 
ridor  running  through  the  middle,  from  which  doors  led 
into  the  adobe-walled  rooms.  The  windows  were  small 
openings  high  up,  evidently  intended  for  defense  as  well 
as  light,  and  they  had  rude  wooden  shutters.  The  floor 
was  clay,  covered  everywhere  by  Indian  blankets.  A 
pioneer's  home  it  was,  simple  and  crude,  yet  comfortable, 
and  having  the  rare  quality  peculiar  to  desert  homes — 
it  was  cool  in  summer  and  warm  in  winter. 

As  Bostil  entered  with  his  arm  round  Lucy  a  big  hound 
rose  from  the  hearth.  This  room  was  immense,  running 
the  length  of  the  house,  and  it  contained  a  huge  stone  fire 
place,  where  a  kettle  smoked  fragrantly,  and  rude  home 
made  chairs  with  blanket  coverings,  and  tables  to  match, 
and  walls  covered  with  bridles,  guns,  pistols,  Indian 
weapons  and  ornaments,  and  trophies  of  the  chase.  In  a 
far  corner  stood  a  work-bench,  with  tools  upon  it  and 
horse  trappings  under  it.  In  the  opposite  corner  a  door 
led  into  the  kitchen.  This  room  was  Bostil's  famous 
living-room,  in  which  many  things  had  happened,  some 
of  which  had  helped  make  desert  history  and  were  never 
mentioned  by  Bostil. 

Bostil's  sister  came  in  from  the  kitchen.  She  was  a 
huge  person  with  a  severe  yet  motherly  face.  She  had 
her  hands  on  her  hips,  and  she  cast  a  rather  disapproving 
glance  at  father  and  daughter. 

ii 


WILDFIRE 

"So  you're  back  again?"  she  queried,  severely. 

"Sure,  Auntie,"  replied  the  girl,  complacently. 

' '  You  ran  off  to  get  out  of  seeing  Wetherby,  didn't  you?" 

Lucy  stared  sweetly  at  her  aunt. 

' '  He  was  waiting  for  hours,"  went  on  the  worthy  woman. 
"  I  never  saw  a  man  in  such  a  stew.  .  .  .  No  wonder,  play 
ing  fast  and  loose  with  him  the  way  you  do." 

"I  told  him  No!"  flashed  Lucy. 

"But  Wetherby 's  not  the  kind  to  take  no.  And  I'm 
not  satisfied  to  let  you  mean  it.  Lucy  Bostil,  you  don't 
know  your  mind  an  hour  straight  running.  You've  fooled 
enough  with  these  riders  of  your  Dad's.  If  you're  not 
careful  you'll  marry  one  of  them.  .  .  .  One  of  these  wild 
riders!  As  bad  as  a  Ute  Indian!  .  .  .  Wetherby  is  young 
and  he  idolizes  you.  In  all  common  sense  why  don't 
you  take  him?" 

"I  don't  care  for  him,"  replied  Lucy. 

"You  like  him  as  well  as  anybody.  .  .  .  John  Bostil, 
what  do  you  say?  You  approved  of  Wetherby.  I  heard 
you  tell  him  Lucy  was  like  an  unbroken  colt  and  that 
you'd—" 

"Sure,  I  like  Jim,"  interrupted  Bostil;  and  he  avoided 
Lucy's  swift  look. 

"Well?"  demanded  his  sister. 

Evidently  Bostil  found  himself  in  a  corner  between  two 
fires.  He  looked  sheepish,  then  disgusted. 

"Dad!"  exclaimed  Lucy,  reproachfully. 

"See  here,  Jane,"  said  Bostil,  with  an  air  of  finality, 
"the  girl  is  of  age  to-day — an'  she  can  do  what  she  damn 
pleases!" 

"That's  a  fine  thing  for  you  to  say,"  retorted  Aunt 
Jane.  "Like  as  not  she'll  be  fetching  that  hang-dog 
Joel  Creech  up  here  for  you  to  support." 

"Auntie!"  cried  Lucy,  her  eyes  blazing. 

"Oh,  child,  you  torment  me — worry  me  so,"  said  the 
disappointed  woman.  "It's  all  for  your  sake.  .  .  .  Look 
at  you,  Lucy  Bostil!  A  girl  of  eighteen  who  comes  of  a 

12 


WILDFIRE 

family!  And  you  riding  around  and  going  around  as  you 
are  now — in  a  man's  clothes!" 

"But,  you  dear  old  goose,  I  can't  ride  in  a  woman's 
skirt,"  expostulated  Lucy.  "Mind  you,  Auntie,  I  can 
rider 

"Lucy,  if  I  live  here  forever  I'd  never  get  reconciled 
to  a  Bostil  woman  in  leather  pants.  We  Bostils  were 
somebody  once,  back  in  Missouri." 

Bostil  laughed.  "Yes,  an'  if  I  hadn't  hit  the  trail 
west  we'd  be  starvin'  yet.  Jane,  you're  a  sentimental  old 
fool.  Let  the  girl  alone  an'  reconcile  yourself  to  this 
wilderness." 

Aunt  Jane's  eyes  were  wet  with  tears.  Lucy,  seeing 
them,  ran  to  her  and  hugged  and  kissed  her. 

"Auntie,  I  will  promise — from  to-day — to  have  some 
dignity.  I've  been  free  as  a  boy  in  these  rider  clothes. 
As  I  am  now  the  men  never  seem  to  regard  me  as  a  girl. 
Somehow  that's  better.  I  can't  explain,  but  I  like  it. 
My  dresses  are  what  have  caused  all  the  trouble.  I 
know  that.  But  if  I'm  grown  up — if  it's  so  tremendous 
— then  I'LL  wear  a  dress  all  the  time,  except  just  when  I 
ride.  Will  that  do,  Auntie?" 

"Maybe  you  will  grow  up,  after  all,"  replied  Aunt 
Jane,  evidently  surprised  and  pleased. 

Then  Lucy  with  clinking  spurs  ran  away  to  her  room. 

"Jane,  what's  this  nonsense  about  young  Joel  Creech?" 
asked  Bostil,  gruffly. 

"  I  don't  know  any  more  than  is  gossiped.  That  I  told 
you.  Have  you  ever  asked  Lucy  about  him?" 

"I  sure  haven't,"  said  Bostil,  bluntly. 

"Well,  ask  her.  If  she  tells  you  at  all  she'll  tell  the 
truth.  Lucy'd  never  sleep  at  night  if  she  lied." 

Aunt  Jane  returned  to  her  housewifely  tasks,  leaving 
Bostil  thoughtfully  stroking  the  hound  and  watching 
the  fire.  Presently  Lucy  returned — a  different  Lucy — 
one  that  did  not  rouse  his  rider's  pride,  but  thrilled  his 
father's  heart.  She  had  been  a  slim,  lithe,  supple,  dishev- 

13 


WILDFIRE 

eled  boy,  breathing  the  wild  spirit  of  the  open  and  the 
horse  she  rode.  She  was  now  a  girl  in  the  graceful  round 
ness  of  her  slender  form,  with  hair  the  gold  of  the  sage 
at  sunset,  and  eyes  the  blue  of  the  deep  haze  of  distance, 
and  lips  the  sweet  red  of  the  upland  rose.  And  all 
about  her  seemed  different. 

"Lucy — you  look — like — like  she  used  to  be,"  said 
Bostil,  unsteadily. 

"My  mother!"  murmured  Lucy. 

But  these  two,  so  keen,  so  strong,  so  alive,  did  not 
abide  long  with  sad  memories. 

"Lucy,  I  want  to  ask  you  something"  said  Bostil, 
presently.  "What  about  this  young  Joel  Creech?" 

Lucy  started  as  if  suddenly  recalled,  then  she  laughed 
merrily.  "Dad,  you  old  fox,  did  you  see  him  ride  out 
after  me?" 

"No.     I  was  just  askin'  on — on  general  principles." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Lucy,  is  there  anythin'  between  you  an'  Joel?"  he 
asked,  gravely. 

"No,"  she  replied,  with  her  clear  eyes  up  to  his. 

Bostil  thought  of  a  bluebell.  "I'm  beggin'  your  par 
don,"  he  said,  hastily. 

"Dad,  you  know  how  Joel  runs  after  me.  I've  told 
you.  I  let  him  till  lately.  I  liked  him.  But  that  wasn't 
why.  I  felt  sorry  for  him — pitied  him." 

"You  did?    Seems  an  awful  waste,"  replied  Bostil. 

"Dad,  I  don't  believe  Joel  is — perfectly  right  in  his 
mind,"  Lucy  said,  solemnly. 

"Haw!  haw!  Fine  compliments  you're  payin'  your 
self." 

' '  Listen.  I'm  serious.  I  mean  I've  grown  to  see — look 
ing  back — that  a  slow,  gradual  change  has  come  over 
Joel  since  he  was  kicked  in  the  head  by  a  mustang.  I'm 
sure  no  one  else  has  noticed  it." 

"Goin'  batty  over  you.  That's  no  unusual  sign  round 
this  here  camp.  Look  at — " 

14 


WILDFIRE 

"We're  talking  about  Joel  Creech.  Lately  he  has 
done  some  queer  things.  To-day,  for  instance.  I  thought 
I  gave  him  the  slip.  But  he  must  have  been  watching. 
Anyway,  to  my  surprise  he  showed  up  on  Peg.  He  doesn't 
often  get  Peg  across  the  river.  He  said  the  feed  was 
getting  scarce  over  there.  I  was  dying  to  race  Buckles 
against  Peg,  but  I  remembered  you  wouldn't  like  that." 

"I  should  say  not,"  said  Bostil,  darkly. 

"Well,  Joel  caught  up  to  me — and  he  wasn't  nice  at  all. 
He  was  worse  to-day.  We  quarreled.  I  said  I'd  bet  he'd 
never  follow  me  again  and  he  said  he'd  bet  he  would. 
Then  he  got  sulky  and  hung  back.  I  rode  away,  glad  to 
be  rid  of  him,  and  I  climbed  to  a  favorite  place  of  mine. 
On  my  way  home  I  saw  Peg  grazing  on  the  rim  of  the 
creek,  near  that  big  spring-hole  where  the  water's  so  deep 
and  clear.  And  what  do  you  think?  There  was  Joel's 
head  above  the  water.  I  remembered  in  our  quarrel 
I  had  told  him  to  go  wash  his  dirty  face.  He  was  doing 
it.  I  had  to  laugh.  When  he  saw  me — he — then — then 
he — "  Lucy  faltered,  blushing  with  anger  and  shame. 

"Well,  what  then?"  demanded  Bostil,  quietly. 

"He  called,  'Hey,  Luce — take  off  your  clothes  and 
come  in  for  a  swim!'" 

Bostil  swore. 

"I  tell  you  I  was  mad,"  continued  Lucy,  "and  just  as 
surprised.  That  was  one  of  the  queer  things.  But  never 
before  had  he  dared  to — to — " 

* '  Insult  you.  Then  what  'd  you  do  ?"  interrupted  Bostil, 
curiously. 

"I  yelled,  Til  fix  you,  Joel  Creech!' ...  His  clothes  were 
in  a  pile  on  the  bank.  At  first  I  thought  I'd  throw  them 
in  the  water,  but  when  I  got  to  them  I  thought  of  some 
thing  better.  I  took  up  all  but  his  shoes,  for  I  remembered 
the  ten  miles  of  rock  and  cactus  between  him  and  home, 
and  I  climbed  up  on  Buckles.  Joel  screamed  and  swore 
something  fearful.  But  I  didn't  look  back.  And  Peg, 
you  know — maybe  you  don't  know — but  Peg  is  fond  of 

IS 


WILDFIRE 

me,  and  he  followed  me,  straddling  his  bridle  all  the  way 
in.  I  dropped  Joel's  clothes  down  the  ridge  a  ways,  right 
in  the  trail,  so  he  can't  miss  them.  And  that's  all.  .  .  . 
Dad,  was  it — was  it  very  bad?" 

"Bad!  Why,  you  ought  to  have  thrown  your  gun  on 
him.  At  least  bounced  a  rock  off  his  head!  But  say, 
Lucy,  after  all,  maybe  you've  done  enough.  I  guess  you 
never  thought  of  it." 

"What?" 

"The  sun  is  hot  to-day.  Hot!  An'  if  Joel's  as  crazy 
an'  mad  as  you  say  hell  not  have  sense  enough  to  stay 
in  the  water  or  shade  till  the  sun's  gone  down.  An*  if 
he  tackles  that  ten  miles  before  hell  sunburn  himself 
within  an  inch  of  his  life." 

"Sunburn?  Oh,  Dad!  I'm  sorry,"  burst  out  Lucy, 
contritely.  "I  never  thought  of  that.  I'll  ride  back 
with  his  clothes." 

"You  will  not,"  said  Bostil. 

"Let  me  send  some  one,  then,"  she  entreated. 

"Girl,  haven't  you  the  nerve  to  play  your  own  game? 
Let  Creech  get  his  lesson.  He  deserves  it.  ...  An'  now, 
Lucy,  I've  two  more  questions  to  ask." 

"Only  two?"  she  queried,  archly.  "Dad,  don't  scold 
me  with  questions." 

"What  shall  I  say  to  Wetherby  for  good  an'  all?" 

Lucy's  eyes  shaded  dreamily,  and  she  seemed  to  look 
beyond  the  room,  out  over  the  ranges. 

"Tell  him  to  go  back  to  Durango  and  forget  the  foolish 
girl  who  can  care  only  for  the  desert  and  a  horse." 

"All  right.  That  is  straight  talk,  like  an  Indian's. 
An*  now  the  last  question — what  do  you  want  for  a  birth 
day  present?" 

"Oh,  of  course,"  she  cried,  gleefully  clapping  her  hands. 
"I'd  forgotten  that.  I'm  eighteen!" 

"You  get  that  old  chest  of  your  mother's.  But  what 
from  me?" 

"Dad,  will  you  give  me  anything  I  ask  for?" 

16 


WILDFIRE 

"Yes,  my  girl." 

"Anything — any  horse?" 

Lucy  knew  his  weakness,  for  she  had  inherited  it. 

"Sure;  any  horse  but  the  King." 

"How  about  Sarchedon?" 

"Why,  Lucy,  what  'd  you  do  with  that  big  black  devil? 
He's  too  high.  Seventeen  hands  high!  You  couldn't 
mount  him." 

"Pooh!    Sarch  kneels  for  me." 

"Child,  listen  to  reason.  Sarch  would  pull  your  arms 
out  of  their  sockets." 

"He  has  got  an  iron  jaw,"  agreed  Lucy.  "Well,  then 
— how  about  Dusty  Ben  ? "  She  was  tormenting  her  father 
and  she  did  it  with  glee. 

"No — not  Ben.  He's  the  faithfulest  hoss  I  ever 
owned.  It  wouldn't  be  fair  to  part  with  him,  even  to 
you.  Old  associations  ...  a  rider's  loyalty  .  .  .  now, 
Lucy,  you  know — " 

"  Dad,  you're  afraid  I'd  train  and  love  Ben  into  beat 
ing  the  King.  Some  day  I'll  ride  some  horse  out  in 
front  of  the  gray.  Remember,  Dad!  .  .  .  Then  give 
me  Two  Face." 

"Sure  not  her,  Lucy.  Thet  mare  can't  be  trusted. 
Look  why  we  named  her  Two  Face." 

"Buckles,  then,  dear  generous  Daddy  who  longs  to 
give  his  grown-up  girl  anything!" 

"Lucy,  can't  you  be  satisfied  an'  happy  with  your 
mustangs?  You've  got  a  dozen.  You  can  have  any 
others  on  the  range.  Buckles  ain't  safe  for  you  to  ride." 

Bostil  was  notably  the  most  generous  of  men,  the 
kindest  of  fathers.  It  was  an  indication  of  his  strange 
obsession,  in  regard  to  horses,  that  he  never  would  see 
that  Lucy  was  teasing  him.  As  far  as  horses  were  con 
cerned  he  lacked  a  sense  of  humor.  Anything  connected 
with  his  horses  was  of  intense  interest. 

"I'd  dearly  love  to  own  Plume,"  said  Lucy,  demurely. 

Bostil  had  grown  red  in  the  face  and  now  he  was  on 


WILDFIRE 

the  rack.  The  monstrous  selfishness  of  a  rider  who  had 
been  supreme  in  his  day  could  not  be  changed. 

"Girl,  I — I  thought  you  hadn't  no  use  for  Plume,"  he 
stammered. 

"  I  haven't — the  jade !  She  threw  me  once.  I've  never 
forgiven  her.  .  .  .  Dad,  I'm  only  teasing  you.  Don't  I 
know  you  couldn't  give  one  of  those  racers  away?  You 
couldn't!" 

"Lucy,  I  reckon  you're  right,"  Bostil  burst  out  in  im 
mense  relief. 

"Dad,  I'll  bet  if  Cordts  gets  me  and  holds  me  as  ran 
som  for  the  King — as  he's  threatened — you'll  let  him 
have  me!" 

"Lucy,  now  thet  ain't  funny!"  complained  the  father. 

"Dear  Dad,  keep  your  old  racers!  But,  remember, 
I'm  my  father's  daughter.  I  can  love  a  horse,  too.  Oh, 
if  I  ever  get  the  one  I  want  to  love!  A  wild  horse — a 
desert  stallion — pure  Arabian — broken  right  by  an  Ind 
ian!  If  I  ever  get  him,  Dad,  you  look  out!  For  I'll 
run  away  from  Sarch  and  Ben — and  I'll  beat  the  King!" 

The  hamlet  of  BostiTs  Ford  had  a  singular  situation, 
though,  considering  the  wonderful  nature  of  that  desert 
country,  it  was  not  exceptional.  It  lay  under  the  pro 
tecting  red  bluff  that  only  Lucy  Bostil  cared  to  climb. 
A  hard-trodden  road  wound  down  through  rough  breaks 
in  the  canon  wall  to  the  river.  Bostil's  house,  at  the 
head  of  the  village,  looked  in  the  opposite  direction,  down 
the  sage  slope  that  widened  like  a  colossal  fan.  There 
was  one  wide  street  bordered  by  cottonwoods  and  cabins, 
and  a  number  of  gardens  and  orchards,  beginning  to  burst 
into  green  and  pink  and  white.  A  brook  ran  out  of  a 
ravine  in  the  huge  bluff,  and  from  this  led  irrigation 
ditches.  The  red  earth  seemed  to  blossom  at  the  touch 
of  water. 

The  place  resembled  an  Indian  encampment — quiet, 
sleepy,  colorful,  with  the  tiny  streams  of  water  running 

18 


WILDFIRE 

everywhere,  and  lazy  columns  of  blue  wood-smoke  rising. 
BostiTs  Ford  was  the  opposite  of  a  busy  village,  yet  its 
few  inhabitants,  as  a  whole,  were  prosperous.  The  wants 
of  pioneers  were  few.  Perhaps  once  a  month  the  big, 
clumsy  flatboat  was  rowed  across  the  river  with  horses  or 
cattle  or  sheep.  And  the  season  was  now  close  at  hand 
when  for  weeks,  sometimes  months,  the  river  was  unford- 
able.  There  were  a  score  of  permanent  families,  a  host  of 
merry,  sturdy  children,  a  number  of  idle  young  men,  and 
only  one  girl — Lucy  Bostil.  But  the  village  always  had 
transient  inhabitants — friendly  Utes  and  Navajos  in  to 
trade,  and  sheep-herders  with  a  scraggy,  woolly  flock,  and 
travelers  of  the  strange  religious  sect  identified  with  Utah 
going  on  into  the  wilderness.  Then  there  were  always 
riders  passing  to  and  fro,  and  sometimes  unknown  ones 
regarded  with  caution.  Horse-thieves  sometimes  boldly 
rode  in,  and  sometimes  were  able  to  sell  or  trade.  In  the 
matter  of  horse-dealing  BostiTs  Ford  was  as  bold  as  the 
thieves. 

Old  Brackton,  a  man  of  varied  Western  experience, 
kept  the  one  store,  which  was  tavern,  trading-post, 
freighter's  headquarters,  blacksmith's  shop,  and  any 
thing  else  needful.  Brackton  employed  riders,  teamsters, 
sometimes  Indians,  to  freight  supplies  in  once  a  month 
from  Durango.  And  that  was  over  two  hundred  miles 
away.  Sometimes  the  supplies  did  not  arrive  on  time — 
occasionally  not  at  all.  News  from  the  outside  world, 
except  that  elicited  from  the  taciturn  travelers  marching 
into  Utah,  drifted  in  at  intervals.  But  it  was  not  missed. 
These  wilderness  spirits  were  the  forerunners  of  a  great 
movement,  and  as  such  were  big,  strong,  stern,  sufficient 
unto  themselves.  Life  there  was  made  possible  by  horses. 
The  distant  future,  that  looked  bright  to  far-seeing  men, 
must  be  and  could  only  be  fulfilled  through  the  endurance 
and  faithfulness  of  horses.  And  then,  from  these  men, 
horses  received  the  meed  due  them,  and  the  love  they  were 
truly  worth.  The  Navajo  was  a  nomad  horseman,  an 

3  19 


WILDFIRE 

Arab  of  the  Painted  Desert,  and  the  Ute  Indian  was 
close  to  him.  It  was  they  who  developed  the  white 
riders  of  the  uplands  as  well  as  the  wild-horse  wrangler 
or  hunter. 

Brackton's  ramshackle  establishment  stood  down  at  the 
end  of  the  village  street.  There  was  not  a  sawed  board 
in  all  that  structure,  and  some  of  the  pine  logs  showed  how 
they  had  been  dropped  from  the  bluff.  Brackton,  a  little 
old  gray  man,  with  scant  beard,  and  eyes  like  those  of  a 
bird,  came  briskly  out  to  meet  an  incoming  .freighter. 
The  wagon  was  minus  a  hind  wheel,  but  the  teamster  had 
come  in  on  three  wheels  and  a  pole.  The  sweaty,  dust- 
caked,  weary,  thin-ribbed  mustangs,  and  the  gray-and- 
red-stained  wagon,  and  the  huge  jumble  of  dusty  packs, 
showed  something  of  what  the  journey  had  been. 

"Hi  thar,  Red  Wilson,  you  air  some  late  gettin'  in," 
greeted  old  Brackton. 

Red  Wilson  had  red  eyes  from  fighting  the  flying  sand, 
and  red  dust  pasted  in  his  scraggy  beard,  and  as  he  gave 
his  belt  an  upward  hitch  little  red  clouds  flew  from  his 
gun-sheath. 

"Yep.  An'  I  left  a  wheel  an'  part  of  the  load  on  the 
trail,"  he  said. 

With  him  were  Indians  who  began  to  unhitch  the 
teams.  Riders  lounging  in  the  shade  greeted  Wilson 
and  inquired  for  news.  The  teamster  replied  that  travel 
was  dry,  the  water-holes  were  dry,  and  he  was  dry.  And 
his  reply  gave  both  concern  and  amusement. 

"One  more  trip  out  an'  back — thet's  all,  till  it  rains," 
concluded  Wilson. 

Brackton  led  him  inside,  evidently  to  alleviate  part 
cf  that  dryness. 

Water  and  grass,  next  to  horses,  were  the  stock  subject 
of  all  riders. 

"It's  got  oncommon  hot  early,"  said  one. 

"Yes,  an'  them  northeast  winds — hard  this  spring," 
said  another. 

20 


WILDFIRE 

"No  snow  on  the  uplands." 

"Holley  seen  a  dry  spell  comin'.  Wai,  we  can  drift 
along  without  freighters.  There's  grass  an'  water  enough 
here,  even  if  it  doesn't  rain." 

"Sure,  but  there  ain't  none  across  the  river." 

"Never  was,  in  early  season.  An'  if  there  was  it  'd 
be  sheeped  off." 

"Creech  '11  be  fetchin'  his  hosses  across  soon,  I  reckon." 

"You  bet  he  will.  He's  trainin'  for  the  races  next 
month." 

"An'  when  air  they  comin'  off?" 

"You  got  me.     Mebbe  Van  knows." 

Some  one  prodded  a  sleepy  rider  who  lay  all  his  splen 
did,  lithe  length,  hat  over  his  eyes.  Then  he  sat  up  and 
blinked,  a  lean-faced,  gray-eyed  fellow,  half  good-natured 
and  half  resentful. 

"Did  somebody  punch  me?" 

"Naw,  you  got  nightmare!  Say,  Van,  when  will  the 
races  come  off?" 

"Huh!  An'  you  woke  me  for  thet?  .  .  .  Bostil  says  in 
a  few  weeks,  soon  as  he  hears  from  the  Indians.  Plans 
to  have  eight  hundred  Indians  here,  an'  the  biggest 
purses  an'  best  races  ever  had  at  the  Ford." 

"You'll  ride  the  King  again?" 

"Reckon  so.  But  Bostil  is  kickin'  because  I'm  heavier 
than  I  was,"  replied  the  rider. 

"You're  skin  an'  bones  at  thet." 

"Mebbe  you'll  need  to  work  a  little  off,  Van.  Some 
one  said  Creech's  Blue  Roan  was  comin'  fast  this 
year." 

"Bill,  your  mind  ain't  operatin',"  replied  Van,  scorn 
fully.  "Didn't  I  beat  Creech's  hosses  last  year  without 
the  ICing  turnin'  a  hair?" 

"Not  if  I  recollect,  you  didn't.  The  Blue  Roan  wasn't 
runnin'." 

Then  they  argued,  after  the  manner  of  friendly  riders, 
but  all  earnest,  all  eloquent  in  their  convictions.  The 

21 


WILDFIRE 

prevailing  opinion  was  that  Creech's  horse  had  a  chance, 
depending  upon  condition  and  luck. 

The  argument  shifted  upon  the  arrival  of  two  new 
comers,  leading  mustangs  and  apparently  talking  trade. 
It  was  manifest  that  these  arrivals  were  not  loath  to  get 
the  opinions  of  others. 

"Van,  there's  a  hoss!"  exclaimed  one. 

"No,  he  ain't,"  replied  Van. 

And  that  diverse  judgment  appeared  to  be  character 
istic  throughout.  The  strange  thing  was  that  Macomber, 
the  rancher,  had  already  traded  his  mustang  and  money 
to  boot  for  the  sorrel.  The  deal,  whether  wise  or  not, 
had  been  consummated.  Brackton  came  out  with  Red 
Wilson,  and  they  had  to  have  their  say. 

"Wai,  durned  if  some  of  you  fellers  ain't  kind  an* 
complimentary,"  remarked  Macomber,  scratching  his 
head.  "But  then  every  feller  can't  have  hoss  sense." 
Then,  looking  up  to  see  Lucy  Bostil  coming  along  the 
road,  he  brightened  as  if  with  inspiration. 

Lucy  was  at  home  among  them,  and  the  shy  eyes  of 
the  younger  riders,  especially  Van,  were  nothing  if  not 
revealing.  She  greeted  them  with  a  bright  smile,  and 
when  she  saw  Brackton  she  burst  out: 

"Oh,  Mr.  Brackton,  the  wagon's  in,  and  did  my  box 
come?  . . .  To-day's  my  birthday." 

"'Deed  it  did,  Lucy;  an'  many  more  happy  ones  to 
you!"  he  replied,  delighted  in  her  delight.  "But  it's  too 
heavy  for  you.  I'll  send  it  up — or  mebbe  one  of  the 
boys—" 

Five  riders  in  unison  eagerly  offered  their  services  and 
looked  as  if  each  had  spoken  first.  Then  Macomber  ad 
dressed  her: 

"Miss  Lucy,  you  see  this  here  sorrel?" 

"Ah!  the  same  lazy  crowd  and  the  same  old  story — a 
horse  trade!"  laughed  Lucy. 

"There's  a  little  difference  of  opinion,"  said  Macomber, 
politely  indicating  the  riders.  "Now,  Miss  Lucy,  we-all 

22 


WILDFIRE 

know  you're  a  judge  of  a  boss.  And  as  good  as  thet  you 
tell  the  truth.  Thet  ain't  in  some  hoss-traders  I  know. 
.  .  .  What  do  you  think  of  this  mustang?" 

Macomber  had  eyes  of  enthusiasm  for  his  latest  acquisi 
tion,  but  some  of  the  cock-sureness  had  been  knocked  out 
of  him  by  the  blunt  riders. 

" Macomber,  aren't  you  a  great  one  to  talk?"  queried 
Lucy,  severely.  "Didn't  you  get  around  Dad  and  trade 
him  an  old,  blind,  knock-kneed  bag  of  bones  for  a  per 
fectly  good  pony — one  I  liked  to  ride?" 

The  riders  shouted  with  laughter  while  the  rancher 
struggled  with  confusion. 

"Ton  my  word,  Miss  Lucy,  I'm  surprised  you  could 
think  thet  of  such  an  old  friend  of  yours — an*  your 
Dad's,  too.  I'm  hopin'  he  doesn't  side  altogether  with 
you." 

"  Dad  and  I  never  agree  about  a  horse.  He  thinks  he 
got  the  best  of  you.  But  you  know,  Macomber,  what  a 
horse-thief  you  are.  Worse  than  Cordts!" 

"Wai,  if  I  got  the  best  of  Bostil  I'm  willin'  to  be  thought 
bad.  I'm  the  first  feller  to  take  him  in.  .  .  .  An'  now, 
Miss  Lucy,  look  over  my  sorrel." 

Lucy  Bostil  did  indeed  have  an  eye  for  a  horse.  She 
walked  straight  up  to  the  wild,  shaggy  mustang  with  a 
confidence  born  of  intuition  and  experience,  and  reached 
a  hand  for  his  head,  not  slowly,  nor  yet  swiftly.  The 
mustang  looked  as  if  he  was  about  to  jump,  but  he  did 
not.  His  eyes  showed  that  he  was  not  used  to  women. 

"He's  not  well  broken,"  said  Lucy.  "Some  Navajo 
has  beaten  his  head  in  breaking  him." 

Then  she  carefully  studied  the  mustang  point  by  point. 

"He's  deceiving  at  first  because  he's  good  to  look  at," 
said  Lucy.  "But  I  wouldn't  own  him.  A  saddle  will 
turn  on  him.  He's  not  vicious,  but  he'll  never  get  over 
his  scare.  He's  narrow  between  the  eyes — a  bad  sign. 
His  ears  are  stiff — and  too  close.  I  don't  see  anything 
more  wrong  with  him." 

23 


WILDFIRE 

" You  seen  enough,"  declared  Macomber.  "An*  so  you 
wouldn't  own  him?" 

"You  couldn't  make  me  a  present  of  him — even  on  my 
birthday." 

"Wai,  now  I'm  sorry,  for  I  was  tittmkin'  of  thet,"  re 
plied  Macomber,  ruefully.  It  was  plain  that  the  sorrel 
had  fallen  irremediably  in  his  estimation. 

"Macomber,  I  often  tell  Dad  all  you  horse-traders  get 
your  deserts  now  and  then.  It's  vanity  and  desire  to 
beat  the  other  man  that's  your  downfall." 

Lucy  went  away,  with  Van  shouldering  her  box,  leaving 
Macomber  trying  to  return  the  banter  of  the  riders.  The 
good-natured  raillery  was  interrupted  by  a  sharp  word 
from  one  of  them. 

" Look!    Darn  me  if  thet  ain't  a  naked  Indian  comin' !" 

The  riders  whirled  to  see  an  apparently  nude  savage 
approaching,  almost  on  a  run. 

"Take  a  shot  at  thet,  Bill,"  said  another  rider.  "Miss 
Lucy  might  see —  No,  she's  out  of  sight.  But,  mebbe 
some  other  woman  is  around." 

"Hold  on,  Bill,"  called  Macomber.  "You  never  saw 
an  Indian  run  like  thet." 

Some  of  the  riders  swore,  others  laughed,  and  all  sud 
denly  became  keen  with  interest. 

"Sure  his  face  is  white,  if  his  body's  red!" 

The  strange  figure  neared  them.  It  was  indeed  red 
up  to  the  face,  which  seemed  white  in  contrast.  Yet 
only  in  general  shape  and  action  did  it  resemble  a  man. 

"Damned  if  it  ain't  Joel  Creech!"  sang  out  Bill  Stark. 

The  other  riders  accorded  their  wondering  assent. 

"Gone  crazy,  sure!" 

"I  always  seen  it  comin'." 

"Say,  but  ain't  he  wild?  Foamin'  at  the  mouth  like  a 
winded  hoss!" 

Young  Creech  was  headed  down  the  road  toward  the 
ford  across  which  he  had  to  go  to  reach  home.  He  saw 
the  curious  group,  slowed  his  pace,  and  halted.  His  face 

24 


WILDFIRE 

seemed  convulsed  with  rage  and  pain  and  fatigue.  His 
body,  even  to  his  hands,  was  incased  in  a  thick,  heavy 
coating  of  red  adobe  that  had  caked  hard. 

"God's  sake — fellers — "  he  panted,  with  eyes  rolling, 
"take  this— 'dobe  mud  off  me!  .  .  .  I'm  dyin'!" 

Then  he  staggered  into  Brackton's  place.  A  howl  went 
up  from  the  riders  and  they  surged  after  him. 

That  evening  after  supper  Bostil  stamped  in  the  big 
room,  roaring  with  laughter,  red  in  the  face;  and  he 
astonished  Lucy  and  her  aunt  to  the  point  of  consternation. 

"Now — you've — done — it — Lucy  Bostil!"  he  roared. 

"Oh  dear!    Oh  dear!"  exclaimed  Aunt  Jane. 

"Done  what?"  asked  Lucy,  blankly. 

Bostil  conquered  his  paroxysm,  and,  wiping  his  moist 
red  face,  he  eyed  Lucy  in  mock  solemnity. 

"Joel!"  whispered  Lucy,  who  had  a  guilty  conscience. 

"Lucy,  I  never  heard  the  beat  of  it.  ...  Joel's  smarter 
in  some  ways  than  we  thought,  an*  crazier  in  others. 
He  had  the  sun  figgered,  but  what  'dhe  want  to  run  through 
town  for?  Why,  never  in  my  life  have  I  seen  such  tickled 
riders." 

"Dad!"  almost  screamed  Lucy.     "What  did  Joel  do?" 

"Wai,  I  see  it  this  way.  He  couldn't  or  wouldn't  wait 
for  sundown.  An'  he  wasn't  hankerin'  to  be  burned. 
So  he  wallows  in  a  'dobe  mud-hole  an'  covers  himself 
thick  with  mud.  You  know  that  'dobe  mud!  Then  he 
starts  home.  But  he  hadn't  figgered  on  the  'dobe  gettin' 
hard,  which  it  did — harder  'n  rock.  An'  thet  must  have 
hurt  more  'n  sunburn.  Late  this  afternoon  he  came  run- 
nin'  down  the  road,  yellin'  thet  he  was  dyin'.  The  boys 
had  conniption  fits.  Joel  ain't  over-liked,  you  know, 
an'  here  they  had  one  on  him.  Mebbe  they  didn't  try 
hard  to  clean  him.  off.  But  the  fact  is  not  for  hours  did 
they  get  thet  'dobe  off  him.  They  washed  an'  scrubbed 
an'  curried  him,  while  he  yelled  an'  cussed.  Finally 
they  peeled  it  off,  with  his  skin  I  guess.  He  was  raw, 

25 


WILDFIRE 

an',  they  say,  the  maddest  feller  ever  seen  in  BostiTs 
Ford!" 

Lucy  was  struggling  between  fear  and  mirth.  She  did 
not  look  sorry.  "Oh!  Oh!  Oh,  Dad!'1 

" Wasn't  it  great,  Lucy?" 

"But  what — will  he — -dor1  choked  Lucy. 

"Lord  only  knows.  Thet  worries  me  some.  Because 
he  never  said  a  word  about  how  he  come  to  lose  his 
clothes  or  why  he  had  the  'dobe  on  him.  An*  sure  I  never 
told.  Nobody  knows  but  us.'* 

"Dad,  he'll  do  something  terrible  to  me!"  cried  Lucy, 
aghast  at  her  premonition. 


CHAPTER  III 

'T'HE  days  did  not  pass  swiftly  at  BostiTs  Ford.  And 
1  except  in  winter,  and  during  the  spring  sand-storms, 
the  lagging  time  passed  pleasantly.  Lucy  rode  every 
day,  sometimes  with  Van,  and  sometimes  alone.  She 
was  not  over-keen  about  riding  with  Van — first,  because 
he  was  in  love  with  her;  and  secondly,  in  spite  of  that, 
she  could  not  beat  him  when  he  rode  the  King.  They 
were  training  BostiTs  horses  for  the  much -anticipated 
races. 

At  last  word  arrived  from  the  Utes  and  Navajos  that 
they  accepted  BostiTs  invitation  and  would  come  in 
force,  which  meant,  according  to  Holley  and  other  old 
riders,  that  the  Indians  would  attend  about  eight  hundred 
strong. 

"Thet  old  chief,  Hawk,  is  comin',"  Holley  informed 
Bostil.  "  He  hasn't  been  here  fer  several  years.  Recollect 
thet  bunch  of  colts  he  had?  They're  hosses,  not  mus 
tangs.  ...  So  you  look  out,  Bostil!" 

No  rider  or  rancher  or  sheepman,  in  fact,  no  one,  ever 
lost  a  chance  to  warn  Bostil.  Some  of  it  was  in  fun,  but 
most  of  it  was  earnest.  The  nature  of  events  was  that 
sooner  or  later  a  horse  would  beat  the  King.  Bostil 
knew  that  as  well  as  anybody,  though  he  would  not  admit 
it.  Holley's  hint  made  Bostil  look  worried.  Most  of 
BostiTs  gray  hairs  might  have  been  traced  to  his  years  of 
worry  about  horses. 

The  day  he  received  word  from  the  Indians  he  sent 
for  Brackton,  Williams,  Muncie,  and  Creech  to  come  to 
his  house  that  night.  These  men,  with  Bostil,  had  for 

27 


WILDFIRE 

years  formed  in  a  way  a  club,  which  gave  the  Ford  dis 
tinction.  Creech  was  no  longer  a  friend  of  Bostil's,  but 
Bostil  had  always  been  fair-minded,  and  now  he  did  not 
allow  his  animosities  to  influence  him.  Holley,  the  vet 
eran  rider,  made  the  sixth  member  of  the  club. 

Bostil  had  a  cedar  log  blazing  cheerily  in  the  wide  fire 
place,  for  these  early  spring  nights  in  the  desert  were  cold. 

Brackton  was  the  last  guest  to  arrive.  He  shuffled  in 
without  answering  the  laconic  greetings  accorded  him, 
and  his  usually  mild  eyes  seemed  keen  and  hard. 

"John,  I  reckon  you  won't  love  me  fer  this  here  I've 
got  to  tell  you,  to-night  specially,"  he  said,  seriously. 

"You  old  robber,  I  couldn't  love  you  anyhow,"  re 
torted  Bostil.  But  his  humor  did  not  harmonize  with 
the  sudden  gravity  of  his  look.  "What's  up?" 

"Who  do  you  suppose  I  jest  sold  whisky  to?" 

"I've  no  idea,"  replied  Bostil.  Yet  he  looked  as  if  he 
was  perfectly  sure. 

"Cordts!  .  .  .  Cordts,  an*  four  of  his  outfit.  Two  of 
them  I  didn't  know.  Bad  men,  judgin'  from  appearances, 
let  alone  company.  The  others  was  Hutchinson  an' — 
Dick  Sears." 

"Dick  Sears!"  exclaimed  Bostil. 

Muncie  and  Williams  echoed  Bostil.  Holley  appeared 
suddenly  interested.  Creech  alone  showed  no  surprise. 

"But  Sears  is  dead,"  added  Bostil. 

"He  was  dead — we  thought,"  replied  Brackton,  with  a 
grim  laugh.  "But  he's  alive  again.  He  told  me  he'd 
been  in  Idaho  fer  two  years,  in  the  gold-fields.  Said  the 
work  was  too  hard,  so  he'd  come  back  here.  Laughed 
when  he  said  it,  the  little  devil!  I'll  bet  he  was  thinkin' 
of  thet  wagon-train  of  mine  he  stole." 

Bostil  gazed  at  his  chief  rider. 

"Wai,  I  reckon  we  didn't  kill  Sears,  after  all,"  replied 
Holley.  "I  wasn't  never  sure." 

"Lord!  Cordts  an'  Sears  in  camp:  ejaculated  Bostil, 
and  he  began  to  pace  the  room. 

28 


WILDFIRE 

"No,  they're  gone  now,"  said  Brackton, 

"Take  it  easy,  boss.  Sit  down,"  drawled  Holley 
"The  King  is  safe,  an'  all  the  racers.  I  swear  to  thet. 
Why,  Cordts  couldn't  chop  into  thet  log-an'-wire  corral 
if  he  an'  his  gang  chopped  all  night!  They  hate  work. 
Besides,  Farlane  is  there,  an'  the  boys." 

This  reassured  Bostil,  and  he  resumed  his  chair.  But 
his  hand  shook  a  little. 

"Did  Cordts  have  anythin'  to  say?"  he  asked. 

"Sure.  He  was  friendly  an'  talkative,"  replied  Brack- 
ton.  "He  came  in  just  after  dark.  Left  a  man  I  didn't 
see  out  with  the  hosses.  He  bought  two  big  packs  of 
supplies,  an'  some  leather  stuff,  an',  of  course,  ammu 
nition.  Then  some  whisky.  Had  plenty  of  gold  an' 
wouldn't  take  no  change.  Then  while  his  men,  except 
Sears,  was  carryin'  out  the  stuff,  he  talked." 

"Go  on.     Tell  me,"  said  Bostil. 

"Wai,  he'd  been  out  north  of  Durango  an'  fetched 
news.  There's  wild  talk  back  there  of  a  railroad  goin' 
to  be  built  some  day,  joinin'  east  an'  west.  It's  interestin', 
but  no  sense  to  it.  How  could  they  build  a  railroad 
through  thet  country?" 

"North  it  ain't  so  cut  up  an'  lumpy  as  here,"  put  in 
Holley. 

"Grandest  idea  ever  thought  of  for  the  West,"  avowed 
Bostil.  "If  thet  railroad  ever  starts  we'll  all  get  rich. 
.  .  .  Go  on,  Brack." 

"Then  Cordts  said  water  an'  grass  was  peterin'  out 
back  on  the  trail,  same  as  Red  Wilson  said  last  week. 
Finally  he  asked,  'How's  my  friend  Bostil?'  I  told  him 
you  was  well.  He  looked  kind  of  thoughtful  then,  an' 
I  knew  what  was  comin'.  .  .  .  'How's  the  King?'  'Grand' 
I  told  him — 'grand.'  'When  is  them  races  comin'  off?' 
I  said  we  hadn't  planned  the  time  yet,  but  it  would  be 
soon — inside  of  a  month  or  two.  'Brackton,'  he  said, 
sharp-like,  'is  Bostil  goin'  to  pull  a  gun  on  me  at  sight?' 
'Reckon  he  is,'  I  told  him.  'Wai,  I'm  not  powerful  glad 

29 


WILDFIRE 

to  know  thet.  ...  I  hear  Creech's  blue  hoss  will  race  the 
King  this  time.  How  about  it?'  'Sure  an'  certain  this 
year.  I've  Creech's  an'  Bostil's  word  for  thet.'  Cordts 
put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder.  You  ought  to  've  seen  his 

eyes !...'!  want  to  see  thet  race I'm  goin'  to.'    '  Wai,' 

I  said, '  you'll  have  to  stop  bein' —  You'll  need  to  change 
your  bizness.'  Then,  Bostil,  what  do  you  think?  Cordts 
was  sort  of  eager  an'  wild.  He  said  thet  was  a  race  he 
jest  couldn't  miss.  He  swore  he  wouldn't  turn  a  trick 
or  let  a  man  of  his  gang  stir  a  hand  till  after  thet  race, 
if  you'd  let  him  come." 

A  light  flitted  across  Bostil's  face. 

"I  know  how  Cordts  feels,"  he  said. 

"Wai,  it's  a  queer  deal,"  went  on  Brackton.  "Per  a 
long  time  you've  meant  to  draw  on  Cordts  when  you 
meet.  We  all  know  thet." 

"Yes,  111  kill  him!"  The  light  left  Bostil's  face.  His 
voice  sounded  differently.  His  mouth  opened,  drooped 
strangely  at  the  corners,  then  shut  in  a  grim,  tense  line. 
Bostil  had  killed  more  than  one  man.  The  memory,  no 
doubt,  was  haunting  and  ghastly. 

"Cordts  seemed  to  think  his  word  was  guarantee  of  his 
good  faith.  He  said  he'd  send  an  Indian  in  here  to  find 
out  if  he  can  come  to  the  races.  I  reckon,  Bostil,  thet  it 
wouldn't  hurt  none  to  let  him  come.  An'  hold  your 
gun  hand  fer  the  time  he  swears  he'll  be  honest.  Queer 
deal,  ain't  it,  men?  A  hoss-thief  turnin'  honest  jest  to  see 
a  race !  Beats  me !  Bostil,  it's  a  cheap  way  to  get  at  least 
a  little  honesty  from  Cordts.  An'  refusin'  might  rile  him 
bad.  When  all's  said  Cordts  ain't  as  bad  as  he  could  be." 

"I'll  let  him  come,"  replied  Bostil,  breathing  deep. 
"But  it'll  be  hard  to  see  him,  rememberin'  how  he's 
robbed  me,  an'  what  he's  threatened.  An'  I  ain't  lettin1 
him  come  to  bribe  a  few  weeks'  decency  from  him.  I'm 
doin*  it  for  only  one  reason.  .  .  .  Because  I  know  how  he 
loves  the  King — how  he  wants  to  see  the  King  run  away 
from  the  field  thet  day!  Thet's  why!" 

30 


WILDFIRE 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  during  which  all  turned 
to  Creech.  He  was  a  stalwart  man,  no  longer  young, 
with  a  lined  face,  deep-set,  troubled  eyes,  and  white, 
thin  beard. 

"Bostil,  if  Cordts  loves  the  King  thet  well,  he's  in  fer 
heartbreak,"  said  Creech,  with  a  ring  in  his  voice. 

Down  crashed  Bostil's  heavy  boots  and  fire  flamed  in  his 
gaze.  The  other  men  laughed,  and  Brackton  interposed: 

"  Hold  on,  you  boy  riders !' '  he  yelled.  "We  ain't  a-goin' 
to  have  any  arguments  like  thet.  .  .  .  Now,  Bostil,  it's 
settled,  then?  You'll  let  Cordts  come?" 

"Glad  to  have  him,"  replied  Bostil. 

"Good.  An'  now  mebbe  we'd  better  get  down  to  the 
bizness  of  this  here  meetin'." 

They  seated  themselves  around  the  table,  upon  which 
Bostil  laid  an  old  and  much-soiled  ledger  and  a  stub  of 
a  lead-pencil. 

"First  we'll  set  the  time,"  he  said,  with  animation,  "an* 
then  pitch  into  details.  .  .  .  What's  the  date?" 

No  one  answered,  and  presently  they  all  looked  blankly 
from  one  to  the  other. 

"It's  April,  ain't  it?"  queried  Holley., 

That  assurance  was  as  close  as  they  could  get  to  the 
time  of  year. 

"Lucy!"  called  Bostil,  in  a  loud  voice. 

She  came  running  in,  anxious,  almost  alarmed. 

"Goodness!  you  made  us  jump!  What  on  earth  is  the 
matter?" 

"Lucy,  we  want  to  know  the  date,"  replied  Bostil. 

"  Date !  Did  you  have  to  scare  Auntie  and  me  out  of 
our  wits  just  for  that?" 

"Who  scared  you?  This  is  important,  Lucy.  What's 
the  date?" 

"It's  a  week  to-day  since  last  Tuesday,"  answered 
Lucy,  sweetly. 

"Huh!  Then  it's  Tuesday  again,"  said  Bostil,  labori 
ously  writing  it  down.  "Now,  what's  the  date?" 


WILDFIRE 

"Don't  you  remember?" 

* '  Remember  ?     I  never  knew. ' ' 

"Dad!  .  .  .  Last  Tuesday  was  my  birthday — the  day 
you  did  not  give  me  a  horse!" 

"Aw,  so  it  was,"  rejoined  Bostil,  confused  at  her  re 
proach.  "An'  thet  date  was — let's  see — April  sixth.  .  .  . 
Then  this  is  April  thirteenth.  Much  obliged,  Lucy.  Run 
back  to  your  aunt  now.  This  hoss  talk  won't  interest 
you." 

Lucy  tossed  her  head.  "I'll  bet  I'll  have  to  straighten 
out  the  whole  thing."  Then  with  a  laugh  she  disap 
peared. 

"Three  days  beginnin — say  June  first.  June  first — 
second,  an'  third.  How  about  thet  for  the  races?" 

Everybody  agreed,  and  Bostil  laboriously  wrote  that 
down.  Then  they  planned  the  details.  Purses  and  prizes, 
largely  donated  by  Bostil  and  Muncie,  the  rich  members 
of  the  community,  were  recorded.  The  old  rules  were 
adhered  to.  Any  rider  or  any  Indian  could  enter  any 
horse  in  any  race,  or  as  many  horses  as  he  liked  in  as 
many  races.  But  by  winning  one  race  he  excluded  him 
self  from  the  others.  Bostil  argued  for  a  certain  weight 
in  riders,  but  the  others  ruled  out  this  suggestion.  Special 
races  were  arranged  for  the  Indians,  with  saddles,  bridles, 
blankets,  guns  as  prizes. 

All  this  appeared  of  absorbing  interest  to  Bostil.  He 
perspired  freely.  There  was  a  gleam  in  his  eye,  betray 
ing  excitement.  When  it  came  to  arranging  the  details 
of  the  big  race  between  the  high-class  racers,  then  he  grew 
intense  and  harder  to  deal  with.  Many  points  had  to 
go  by  vote.  Muncie  and  Williams  both  had  fleet  horses 
to  enter  in  this  race;  Holley  had  one;  Creech  had  two; 
there  were  sure  to  be  several  Indians  enter  fast  mustangs; 
and  Bostil  had  the  King  and  four  others  to  choose  from. 
Bostil  held  out  stubbornly  for  a  long  race.  It  was  well 
known  that  Sage  King  was  unbeatable  in  a  long  race. 
If  there  were  any  chance  to  beat  him  it  must  be  at  short 

32 


WILDFIRE 

distance.  The  vote  went  against  Bostil,  much  to  his 
chagrin,  and  the  great  race  was  set  down  for  two  miles. 

"But  two  miles!  ...  Two  miles!"  he  kept  repeating. 
"Thet's  Blue  Roan's  distance.  Thet's  his  distance.  An' 
it  ain't  fair  to  the  King!" 

His  guests,  excepting  Creech,  argued  with  him,  ex 
plained,  reasoned,  showed  him  that  it  was  fair  to  all  con 
cerned.  Bostil  finally  acquiesced,  but  he  was  not  happy. 
The  plain  fact  was  that  he  was  frightened. 

When  the  men  were  departing  Bostil  called  Creech 
back  into  the  sitting-room.  Creech  appeared  surprised, 
yet  it  was  evident  that  he  would  have  been  glad  to  make 
friends  with  Bostil. 

"What  '11  you  take  for  the  roan?"  Bostil  asked,  tersely, 
as  if  he  had  never  asked  that  before. 

"Bostil,  didn't  we  thresh  thet  out  before — an'  fell  out 
over  it?"  queried  Creech,  with  a  deprecating  spread  of 
his  hands. 

"Wai,  we  can  fall  in  again,  if  you'll  sell  or  trade  the 
hoss." 

"I'm  sorry,  but  I  can't." 

"You  need  money  an'  hosses,  don't  you?"  demanded 
Bostil,  brutally.  He  had  no  conscience  in  a  matter  of 
horse-dealing. 

"Lord  knows,  I  do,"  replied  Creech. 

"Wai,  then,  here's  your  chance.  I'll  give  you  five  hun 
dred  in  gold  an'  Sarchedon  to  boot." 

Creech  looked  as  if  he  had  not  heard  aright.  Bostil 
repeated  the  offer. 

"No,"  replied  Creech. 

"I'll  make  it  a  thousand  an*  throw  Plume  in  with 
Sarch,"  flashed  Bostil. 

"No!"     Creech  turned  pale  and  swallowed  hard. 

"Two  thousand  an*  Dusty  Ben  along  with  the  others?" 

This  was  an  unheard-of  price  to  pay  for  any  horse. 
Creech  saw  that  Bostil  was  desperate.  It  was  an  almost 
overpowering  temptation.  Evidently  Creech  resisted  it 

33 


WILDFIRE 

only  by  applying  all  his  mind  to  the  thought  of  his 
clean-limbed,  soft-eyed,  noble  horse. 

Bostil  did  not  give  Creech  time  to  speak.  "Twenty- 
five  hundred  an'  Two  Face  along  with  the  rest!" 

"My  God,  Bostil— stop  it!  I  can't  part  with  Blue 
Roan.  You're  rich  an*  you've  no  heart.  Thet  I  always 
knew.  At  least  to  me  you  never  had,  since  I  owned  them 
two  racers.  Didn't  I  beg  you,  a  little  time  back,  to  lend 
me  a  few  hundred?  To  meet  thet  debt?  An'  you 
wouldn't,  unless  I'd  sell  the  hosses.  An'  I  had  to  lose 
my  sheep.  Now  I'm  a  poor  man — gettin'  poorer  all  the 
time.  But  I  won't  sell  or  trade  Blue  Roan,  not  for  all 
you've  got!" 

Creech  seemed  to  gain  strength  with  his  speech  and 
passion  with  the  strength.  His  eyes  glinted  at  the  hard, 
paling  face  of  his  rival.  He  raised  a  clenching  fist. 

"An*  by  G — d,  I'm  goin'  to  win  thet  race!" 

During  that  week  Lucy  had  heard  many  things  about 
Joel  Creech,  and  some  of  them  were  disquieting. 

Some  rider  had  not  only  found  Joel's  clothes  on  the 
trail,  but  he  had  recognized  the  track  of  the  horse  Lucy 
rode,  and  at  once  connected  her  with  the  singular  dis 
covery.  Coupling  that  with  Joel's  appearance  in  the 
village  incased  in  a  heaving  armor  of  adobe,  the  riders 
guessed  pretty  close  to  the  truth.  For  them  the  joke  was 
tremendous.  And  Joel  Creech  was  exceedingly  sensitive 
to  ridicule.  The  riders  made  life  unbearable  for  him. 
They  had  fun  out  of  it  as  long  as  Joel  showed  signs 
of  taking  the  joke  manfully,  which  was  not  long,  and 
then  his  resentment  won  their  contempt.  That  led  to 
sarcasm  on  their  part  and  bitter  anger  on  his.  It  came  to 
Lucy's  ears  that  Joel  began  to  act  and  talk  strangely. 
She  found  out  that  the  rider  Van  had  knocked  Joel  down 
in  Brackton's  store  and  had  kicked  a  gun  out  of  his  hand. 
Van  laughed  off  the  rumor  and  Brackton  gave  her  no 
satisfaction.  Moreover,  she  heard  no  other  rumors.  The 

34 


WILDFIRE 

channels  of  gossip  had  suddenly  closed  to  her.  Bostil, 
when  questioned  by  Lucy,  swore  in  a  way  that  amazed 
her,  and  all  he  told  her  was  to  leave  Creech  alone.  Final 
ly,  when  Muncie  discharged  Joel,  who  worked  now  and 
then,  Lucy  realized  that  something  was  wrong  with  Joel 
and  that  she  was  to  blame  for  it. 

She  grew  worried  and  anxious  and  sorry,  but  she  held 
her  peace,  and  determined  to  find  out  for  herself  what 
was  wrong.  Every  day  when  she  rode  out  into  the  sage 
she  expected  to  meet  him,  or  at  least  see  him  some 
where;  nevertheless  days  went  by  and  there  was  no  sign 
of  him. 

One  afternoon  she  saw  some  Indians  driving  sheep  down 
the  river  road  toward  the  ford,  and,  acting  upon  impulse, 
she  turned  her  horse  after  them. 

Lucy  seldom  went  down  the  river  road.  Riding  down 
and  up  was  merely  work,  and  a  horse  has  as  little  liking 
for  it  as  she  had.  Usually  it  was  a  hot,  dusty  trip,  and 
the  great,  dark,  overhanging  walls  had  a  depressing  effect 
upon  her.  She  always  felt  awe  at  the  gloomy  canon 
and  fear  at  the  strange,  murmuring  red  river.  But  she 
started  down  this  afternoon  in  the  hope  of  meeting  Joel. 
She  had  a  hazy  idea  of  telling  him  she  was  sorry  for  what 
she  had  done,  and  of  asking  him  to  forget  it  and  pay  no 
more  heed  to  the  riders. 

The  sheep  raised  a  dust-cloud  in  the  sandy  wash  where 
the  road  wound  down,  and  Lucy  hung  back  to  let  them 
get  farther  ahead.  Gradually  the  tiny  roar  of  pattering 
hoofs  and  the  blended  bleating  and  baaing  died  away. 
The  dust -cloud,  however,  hung  over  the  head  of  the 
ravine,  and  Lucy  had  to  force  Sarchedon  through  it. 
Sarchedon  did  not  mind  sand  and  dust,  but  he  surely 
hated  the  smell  of  sheep.  Lucy  seldom  put  a  spur  to 
Sarchedon;  still,  she  gave  him  a  lash  with  her  quirt,  and 
then  he  went  on  obediently,  if  disgustedly.  He  carried 
his  head  like  a  horse  that  wondered  why  his  mistress  pre 
ferred  to  drive  him  down  into  an  unpleasant  hole  when 

4  35 


WILDFIRE 

she  might  have  been  cutting  the  sweet,  cool  sage  wind 
up  on  the  slope. 

The  wash,  with  its  sand  and  clay  walls,  dropped  into 
a  gulch,  and  there  was  an  end  of  green  growths.  The 
road  led  down  over  solid  rock.  Gradually  the  rims  of 
the  gorge  rose,  shutting  out  the  light  and  the  cliffs.  It 
was  a  winding  road  and  one  not  safe  to  tarry  on  in  a 
stormy  season.  Lucy  had  seen  boulders  weighing  a  ton 
go  booming  down  that  gorge  during  one  of  the  sudden 
fierce  desert  storms,  when  a  torrent  of  water  and  mud 
and  stone  went  plunging  on  to  the  river.  The  ride  through 
here  was  short,  though  slow.  Lucy  always  had  time  to 
adjust  her  faculties  for  the  overpowering  contrast  these 
lower  regions  presented.  Long  before  she  reached  the  end 
of  the  gorge  she  heard  the  sullen  thunder  of  the  river. 
The  river  was  low,  too,  for  otherwise  there  would  have 
been  a  deafening  roar. 

Presently  she  came  out  upon  a  lower  branch  of  the 
canon,  into  a  great  red-walled  space,  with  the  river  still  a 
thousand  feet  below,  and  the  cliffs  towering  as  high  above 
her.  The  road  led  down  along  this  rim  where  to  the  left 
all  was  open,  across  to  the  split  and  peaked  wall  opposite. 
The  river  appeared  to  sweep  round  a  bold,  bulging  corner 
a  mile  above.  It  was  a  wide,  swift,  muddy,  turbulent 
stream.  A  great  bar  of  sand  stretched  out  from  the 
shore.  Beyond  it,  through  the  mouth  of  an  intersecting 
canon,  could  be  seen  a  clump  of  cottonwoods  and  willows 
that  marked  the  home  of  the  Creeches.  Lucy  could  not 
see  the  shore  nearest  her,  as  it  was  almost  directly  under 
her.  Besides,  in  this  narrow  road,  on  a  spirited  horse, 
she  was  not  inclined  to  watch  the  scenery.  She  hurried 
Sarchedon  down  and  down,  under  the  overhanging  brows 
of  rock,  to  where  the  rim  sloped  out  and  failed.  Here  was 
a  half-acre  of  sand,  with  a  few  scant  willows,  set  down 
seemingly  in  a  dent  at  the  base  of  the  giant,  beetling  cliffs. 
The  place  was  light,  though  the  light  seemed  a  kind  of 
veiled  red,  and  to  Lucy  always  ghastly.  She  could  not 

36 


WILDFIRE 

have  been  joyous  with  that  river  moaning  before  her, 
even  if  it  had  been  up  on  a  level,  in  the  clear  and  open  day. 
As  a  little  girl  eight  years  old  she  had  conceived  a  terror 
and  hatred  of  this  huge,  jagged  rent  so  full  of  red  haze 
and  purple  smoke  and  the  thunder  of  rushing  waters. 
And  she  had  never  wholly  outgrown  it.  The  joy  of  the 
sun  and  wind,  the  rapture  in  the  boundless  open,  the 
sweetness  in  the  sage — these  were  not  possible  here. 
Something  mighty  and  ponderous,  heavy  as  those  colossal 
cliffs,  weighted  down  her  spirit.  The  voice  of  the  river 
drove  out  any  dream.  Here  was  the  incessant  frowning 
presence  of  destructive  forces  of  nature.  And  the  ford 
was  associated  with  catastrophe — to  sheep,  to  horses 
and  to  men. 

Lucy  rode  across  the  bar  to  the  shore  where  the  Indians 
were  loading  the  sheep  into  an  immense  rude  flatboat. 
As  the  sheep  were  frightened,  the  loading  was  no  easy  task. 
Their  bleating  could  be  heard  above  the  roar  of  the  river. 
Bostil's  boatmen,  Shugrue  and  Somers,  stood  knee-deep 
in  the  quicksand  of  the  bar,  and  their  efforts  to  keep  free- 
footed  were  as  strenuous  as  their  handling  of  the  sheep. 
Presently  the  flock  was  all  crowded  on  board,  the  Indians 
followed,  and  then  the  boatmen  slid  the  unwieldy  craft 
off  the  sand-bar.  Then,  each  manning  a  clumsy  oar, 
they  pulled  up-stream.  Along  shore  were  whirling,  slow 
eddies,  and  there  rowing  was  possible.  Out  in  that  swift 
current  it  would  have  been  folly  to  try  to  contend  with 
it,  let  alone  make  progress.  The  method  of  crossing  was 
to  row  up  along  the  shore  as  far  as  a  great  cape  of  rock 
jutting  out,  and  there  make  into  the  current,  and  while 
drifting  down  pull  hard  to  reach  the  landing  opposite. 
Heavily  laden  as  the  boat  was,  the  chances  were  not 
wholly  in  favor  of  a  successful  crossing. 

Lucy  watched  the  slow,  laborious  struggle  of  the  boat 
men  with  the  heavy  oars  until  she  suddenly  remembered 
the  object  of  her  visit  down  to  the  ford.  She  appeared 
to  be  alone  on  her  side  of  the  river.  At  the  landing  op- 

37 


WILDFIRE 

posite,  however,  were  two  men;  and  presently  Lucy  recog 
nized  Joel  Creel  and  his  father.  A  second  glance  showed 
Indians  with  burros,  evidently  waiting  for  the  boat. 
Joel  Creech  jumped  into  a  skiff  and  shoved  off.  The  elder 
man,  judging  by  his  motions,  seemed  to  be  trying  to  pre 
vent  his  son  from  leaving  the  shore.  But  Joel  began 
to  row  up-stream,  keeping  close  to  the  shore.  Lucy 
watched  him.  No  doubt  he  had  seen  her  and  was  coming 
across.  Either  the  prospect  of  meeting  him  or  the  idea 
of  meeting  him  there  in  the  place  where  she  was  never 
herself  made  her  want  to  turn  at  once  and  ride  back 
home.  But  her  stubborn  sense  of  fairness  overruled  that. 
She  would  hold  her  ground  solely  in  the  hope  of  persuad 
ing  Joel  to  be  reasonable.  She  saw  the  big  flatboat  sweep 
into  line  of  sight  at  the  same  time  Joel  turned  into  the 
current.  But  while  the  larger  craft  drifted  slowly  the 
other  way,  the  smaller  one  came  swiftly  down  and  across. 
Joel  swept  out  of  the  current  into  the  eddy,  rowed  across 
that,  and  slid  the  skiff  up  on  the  sand-bar.  Then  he 
stepped  out.  He  was  bareheaded  and  barefooted,  but 
it  was  not  that  which  made  him  seem  a  stranger  to  Lucy. 

"Are  you  lookin'  fer  me?"  he  shouted. 

Lucy  waved  a  hand  for  him  to  come  up. 

Then  he  approached.  He  was  a  tall,  lean  young  man, 
stoop-shouldered  and  bow-legged  from  much  riding,  with 
sallow,  freckled  face,  a  thin  fuzz  of  beard,  weak  mouth  and 
chin,  and  eyes  remarkable  for  their  small  size  and  pierc 
ing  quality  and  different  color.  For  one  was  gray  and 
the  other  was  hazel.  There  was  no  scar  on  his  face,  but 
the  irregularity  of  his  features  reminded  one  who  knew 
that  he  had  once  been  kicked  in  the  face  by  a  horse. 

Creech  came  up  hurriedly,  in  an  eager,  wild  way  that 
made  Lucy  suddenly  pity  him.  He  did  not  seem  to 
remember  that  the  stallion  had  an  antipathy  for  him. 
But  Lucy,  if  she  had  forgotten,  would  have  been  reminded 
by  Sarchedon's  action. 

"Look  out,  Joel!"  she  called,  and  she  gave  the  black's 

38 


WILDFIRE 

head  a  jerk.  Sarchedon  went  up  with  a  snort  and  came 
down  pounding  the  sand.  Quick  as  an  Indian  Lucy  was 
out  of  the  saddle. 

"Lemme  your  quirt,"  said  Joel,  showing  his  teeth  like 
a  wolf. 

"No.  I  wouldn't  let  you  hit  Sarch.  You  beat  him 
once,  and  he's  never  forgotten,"  replied  Lucy. 

The  eye  of  the  horse  and  the  man  met  and  clashed, 
and  there  was  a  hostile  tension  in  their  attitudes.  Then 
Lucy  dropped  the  bridle  and  drew  Joel  over  to  a  huge 
drift-log,  half  buried  in  the  sand.  Here  she  sat  down,  but 
Joel  remained  standing.  His  gaze  was  now  all  the 
stranger  for  its  wistfulness.  Lucy  was  quick  to  catch 
a  subtle  difference  in  him,  but  she  could  not  tell  wherein 
it  lay. 

''What  'd  you  want?"  asked  Joel. 

"I've  heard  a  lot  of  things,  Joel,"  replied  Lucy,  trying 
to  think  of  just  what  she  wanted  to  say. 

"Reckon  you  have,"  said  Joel,  dejectedly,  and  then  he 
sat  down  on  the  log  and  dug  holes  in  the  sand  with  his 
bare  feet. 

Lucy  had  never  before  seen  him  look  tired,  and  it  seemed 
that  some  of  the  healthy  brown  of  his  cheeks  had  thinned 
out.  Then  Lucy  told  him,  guardedly,  a  few  of  the  rumors 
she  had  heard. 

"All  thet  you  say  is  nothin'  to  what's  happened,"  he 
replied,  bitterly.  "Them  riders  mocked  the  life  an'  soul 
out  of  me." 

"But,  Joel,  you  shouldn't  be  so — so  touchy,"  said 
Lucy,  earnestly.  "After  all,  the  joke  was  on  you.  Why 
didn't  you  take  it  like  a  man?" 

"But  they  knew  you  stole  my  clothes,"  he  protested. 

"Suppose  they  did.  That  wasn't  much  to  care  about. 
If  you  hadn't  taken  it  so  hard  they'd  have  let  up  on 
you." 

"Mebbe  I  might  have  stood  that.  But  they  taunted 
me  with  bein' — loony  about  you." 

39 


WILDFIRE 

Joel  spoke  huskily  There  was  no  doubt  that  he  had 
been  deeply  hurt.  Lucy  saw  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  her 
first  impulse  was  to  put  a  hand  on  his  and  tell  him  how 
sorry  she  was.  But  she  desisted.  She  did  not  feel  at 
her  ease  with  Joel. 

"What'd  you  and  Van  fight  about?"  she  asked,  pres 
ently. 

Joel  hung  his  head.  "I  reckon  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  tell 
you." 

"You're  ashamed  of  it?" 

Joel's  silence  answered  that. 

"You  said  something  about  me?"  Lucy  could  not  re 
sist  her  curiosity,  back  of  which  was  a  little  heat.  "It 
must  have  been — bad — else  Van  wouldn't  have  struck 
you." 

"He  hit  me — he  knocked  me  flat,"  passionately  said 
Joel. 

"And  you  drew  a  gun  on  him?" 

"I  did,  an'  like  a  fool  I  didn't  wait  till  I  got  up.  Then 
he  kicked  me!  .  .  .  Bostil's  Ford  will  never  be  big  enough 
fer  me  an'  Van  now." 

"Don't  talk  foolish.  You  won't  fight  with  Van.  .  .  . 
Joel,  maybe  you  deserved  what  you  got.  You  say  some 
— some  rude  things." 

"I  only  said  I'd  pay  you  back,"  burst  out  Joel. 

"How?" 

"I  swore  I'd  lay  fer  you — an'  steal  your  clothes — so 
you'd  have  to  run  home  naked." 

There  was  indeed  something  lacking  in  Joel,  but  it 
was  not  sincerity.  His  hurt  had  rankled  deep  and  his 
voice  trembled  with  indignation. 

"But,  Joel,  I  don't  go  swimming  in  spring-holes,"  pro 
tested  Lucy,  divided  between  amusement  and  annoyance. 

"I  meant  it,  anyhow,"  said  Joel,  doggedly. 

"Are  you  absolutely  honest?  Is  that  all  you  said  to 
provoke  Van?" 

"It's  all,  Lucy,  I  swear." 

40 


WILDFIRE 

She  believed  him,  and  saw  the  unfortunate  circumstance 
more  than  ever  her  fault.  "I'm  sorry,  Joel.  I'm  much 
to  blame.  I  shouldn't  have  lost  my  temper  and  played 
that  trick  with  your  clothes.  ...  If  you'd  only  had  sense 
enough  to  stay  out  till  after  dark!  But  no  use  crying 
over  spilt  milk.  Now,  if  you'll  do  your  share  I'll  do 
mine.  I'll  tell  the  boys  I  was  to  blame.  I'll  persuade 
them  to  let  you  alone.  I'll  go  to  Muncie — " 

"No  you  won't  go  cryin'  small  fer  me!"  blurted  out 
Joel. 

Lucy  was  surprised  to  see  pride  in  him.  "Joel,  I'll  not 
make  it  appear — " 

"You'll  not  say  one  word  about  me  to  any  one,"  he  went 
on,  with  the  blood  beginning  to  darken  his  face.  And 
now  he  faced  her.  How  strange  the  blaze  in  his  differ 
ently  colored  eyes!  "Lucy  Bostil,  there's  been  thet  done 
an'  said  to  me  which  I'll  never  forgive.  I'm  no  good  in 
Bostil's  Ford.  Mebbe  I  never  was  much.  But  I  could 
get  a  job  when  I  wanted  it  an'  credit  when  I  needed  it. 
Now  I  can't  get  nothin'.  I'm  no  good!  .  .  .  I'm  no  good! 
An'  it's  your  fault!" 

"Oh,  Joel,  what  can  I  do?"  cried  Lucy. 

"I  reckon  there's  only  one  way  you  can  square  me," 
he  replied,  suddenly  growing  pale.  But  his  eyes  were 
like  flint.  He  certainly  looked  to  be  in  possession  of  all 
his  wits. 

"How?"  queried  Lucy,  sharply. 

* '  You  can  marry  me.  Thet  '11  show  thet  gang !  An'  it  '11 
square  me.  Then  I'll  go  back  to  work  an'  111  stick. 
Thet's  all,  Lucy  Bostil." 

Manifestly  he  was  laboring  under  strong  suppressed 
agitation.  That  moment  was  the  last  of  real  strength 
and  dignity  ever  shown  by  Joel  Creech. 

"But,  Joel,  I  can't  marry  you — even  if  I  am  to  blame 
for  your  ruin,"  said  Lucy,  simply. 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  don't  love  you." 


WILDFIRE 

"I  reckon  thet  won't  make  any  difference,  if  you  don't 
love  some  one  else." 

Lucy  gazed  blankly  at  him.  He  began  to  shake,  and 
his  eyes  grew  wild.  She  rose  from  the  log. 

"Do  you  love  anybody  else?"  he  asked,  passionately. 

"None  of  your  business!"  retorted  Lucy.  Then,  at  a 
strange  darkening  of  his  face,  an  aspect  unfamiliar  to  her, 
she  grew  suddenly  frightened. 

"It's  Van!"  he  said,  thickly. 

"Joel,  you're  a  fool!" 

That  only  infuriated  him. 

"So  they  all  say.  An'  they  got  my  old  man  believin' 
it,  too.  Mebbe  I  am.  .  .  .  But  I'm  a-goin'  to  kill  Van!" 

"No!  No!  Joel,  what  are  you  saying?  I  don't  love 
Van.  I  don't  care  any  more  for  him  than  for  any  other 
rider — or — or  you." 

"Thet's  a  lie,  Lucy  Bostil!" 

"How  dare  you  say  I  lie?"  demanded  Lucy.  "I've 
a  mind  to  turn  my  back  on  you.  I'm  trying  to  make  up 
for  my  blunder  and  you — you  insult  me!" 

"You  talk  sweet  .  .  .  but  talk  isn't  enough.  You  made 
me  no-good.  .  .  .  Will  you  marry  me?" 

"I  will  not!"  And  Lucy,  with  her  blood  up,  could  not 
keep  contempt  out  of  voice  and  look,  and  she  did  not 
care.  That  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  shown  any 
thing  approaching  ridicule  for  Joel.  The  effect  was  re 
markable.  Like  a  lash  upon  a  raw  wound  it  made  him 
writhe;  but  more  significant  to  Lucy  was  the  sudden 
convulsive  working  of  his  features  and  the  wildness  of 
his  eyes.  Then  she  turned  her  back,  not  from  contempt, 
but  to  hurry  away  from  him. 

He  leaped  after  her  and  grasped  her  with  rude  hands. 

"Let  me  go!"  cried  Lucy,  standing  perfectly  motionless. 
The  hard  clutch  of  his  fingers  roused  a  fierce,  hot  anger. 

Joel  did  not  heed  her  command.  He  was  forcing  her 
back.  He  talked  incoherently.  One  glimpse  of  his  face 
added  terror  to  Lucy's  fury. 

42 


WILDFIRE 

"Joel,  you're  out  of  your  head!"  she  cried,  and  she 
began  to  wrench  and  writhe  out  of  his  grasp.  Then  en 
sued  a  short,  sharp  struggle.  Joel  could  not  hold  Lucy, 
but  he  tore  her  blouse  into  shreds.  It  seemed  to  Lucy 
that  he  did  that  savagely.  She  broke  free  from  him,  and 
he  lunged  at  her  again.  With  all  her  strength  she  lashed 
his  face  with  the  heavy  leather  quirt.  That  staggered 
him.  He  almost  fell. 

Lucy  bounded  to  Sarchedon.  In  a  flash  she  was  up 
in  the  saddle.  Joel  was  running  toward  her.  Blood  on 
his  face!  Blood  on  his  hands!  He  was  not  the  Joel 
Creech  she  knew. 

"Stop!"  cried  Lucy,  fiercely.     "I'll  run  you  down!" 

The  big  black  plunged  at  a  touch  of  spur  and  came  down 
quivering,  ready  to  bolt. 

Creech  swerved  to  one  side.  His  face  was  lividly  white 
except  where  the  bloody  welts  crossed  it.  His  jaw  seemed 
to  hang  loosely,  making  speech  difficult. 

"Jest  fer— thet— "  he  panted,  hoarsely,  "I'll  lay  fer 
you — an'  I'll  strip  you — an'  I'll  tie  you  on  a  hoss — an* 
111  drive  you  naked  through  Bostil's  Ford!" 

Lucy  saw  the  utter  futility  of  all  her  good  intentions. 
Something  had  snapped  in  Joel  Creech's  mind.  And  in 
hers  kindness  had  given  precedence  to  a  fury  she  did  not 
know  was  in  her.  For  the  second  time  she  touched  a 
spur  to  Sarchedon.  He  leaped  out,  flashed  past  Creech, 
and  thundered  up  the  road.  It  was  all  Lucy  could  do 
to  break  his  gait  at  the  first  steep  rise. 


CHAPTER  IV 

'"PHREE  wild-horse  hunters  made  camp  one  night  be- 
1    side  a  little  stream  in  the  Sevier  Valley,  five  hundred 
miles,  as  a  crow  flies,  from  Bostil's  Ford. 

These  hunters  had  a  poor  outfit,  excepting,  of  course, 
their  horses.  They  were  young  men,  rangy  in  build,  lean 
and  hard  from  life  in  the  saddle,  bronzed  like  Indians, 
still-faced,  and  keen-eyed.  Two  of  them  appeared  to  be 
tired  out,  and  lagged  at  the  camp-fire  duties.  When  the 
meager  meal  was  prepared  they  sat,  cross-legged,  before 
a  ragged  tarpaulin,  eating  and  drinking  in  silence. 

The  sky  in  the  west  was  rosy,  slowly  darkening.  The 
valley  floor  billowed  away,  ridged  and  cut,  growing  gray 
and  purple  and  dark.  Walls  of  stone,  pink  with  the  last 
rays  of  the  setting  sun,  inclosed  the  valley,  stretching 
away  toward  a  long,  low,  black  mountain  range. 

The  place  was  wild,  beautiful,  open,  with  something 
nameless  that  made  the  desert  different  from  any  other 
country.  It  was,  perhaps,  a  loneliness  of  vast  stretches 
of  valley  and  stone,  clear  to  the  eye,  even  after  sunset. 
That  black  mountain  range,  which  looked  close  enough 
to  ride  to  before  dark,  was  a  hundred  miles  distant. 

The  shades  of  night  fell  swiftly,  and  it  was  dark  by 
the  time  the  hunters  finished  the  meal.  Then  the  camp- 
fire  had  burned  low.  One  of  the  three  dragged  branches 
of  dead  cedars  and  replenished  the  fire.  Quickly  it 
flared  up,  with  the  white  flame  and  crackle  characteristic 
of  dry  cedar.  The  night  wind  had  risen,  moaning  through 
the  gnarled,  stunted  cedars  near  by,  and  it  blew  the  fra 
grant  wood-smoke  into  the  faces  of  the  two  hunters,  who 
seemed  too  tired  to  move. 

44 


WILDFIRE 

"I  reckon  a  pipe  would  help  me  make  up  my  mind," 
said  one. 

"Wai,  Bill,"  replied  the  other,  dryly,  "your  mind's 
made  up,  else  you'd  not  say  smoke." 

"Why?" 

"Because  there  ain't  three  pipefuls  of  thet  precious 
tobacco  left." 

"Thet's  one  apiece,  then.  .  .  .  Lin,  come  an*  smoke  the 
last  pipe  with  us." 

The  tallest  of  the  three,  he  who  had  brought  the  fire 
wood,  stood  in  the  bright  light  of  the  blaze.  He  looked 
the  born  rider,  light,  lithe,  powerful. 

"Sure,  I'll  smoke,"  he  replied. 

Then,  presently,  he  accepted  the  pipe  tendered  him, 
and,  sitting  down  beside  the  fire,  he  composed  himself  to 
the  enjoyment  which  his  companions  evidently  con 
sidered  worthy  of  a  decision  they  had  reached. 

"So  this  smokin'  means  you  both  want  to  turn  back?" 
queried  Lin,  his  sharp  gaze  glancing  darkly  bright  in  the 
glow  of  the  fire. 

"Yep,  we'll  turn  back.  An',  Lordy!  the  relief  I  feel!" 
replied  one. 

"We've  been  long  comin*  to  it,  Lin,  an'  thet  was  for 
your  sake,"  replied  the  other. 

Lin  slowly  pulled  at  his  pipe  and  blew  out  the  smoke  as 
if  reluctant  to  part  with  it.  "Let's  go  on,"  he  said, 
quietly. 

"No.  I've  had  all  I  want  of  chasin'  thet  damn  wild 
stallion,"  returned  Bill,  shortly. 

The  other  spread  wide  his  hands  and  bent  an  expostu 
lating  look  upon  the  one  called  Lin.  "We're  two  hun 
dred  miles  out,"  he  said.  "There's  only  a  little  flour  left 
in  the  bag.  No  coffee!  Only  a  little  salt!  All  the 
bosses  except  your  big  Nagger  are  played  out.  We're 
already  in  strange  country.  An*  you  know  what  we've 
heerd  of  this  an'  all  to  the  south.  It's  all  canons,  an' 
somewheres  down  there  is  thet  awful  canon  none  of  our 

45 


WILDFIRE 

people  ever  seen.  But  we've  heerd  of  it.  An  awful  cut- 
up  country." 

He  finished  with  a  conviction  that  no  one  could  say  a 
word  against  the  common  sense  of  his  argument.  Lin 
was  silent,  as  if  impressed. 

Bill  raised  a  strong,  lean,  brown  hand  in  a  forcible 
gesture.  "  We  can't  ketch  Wildfire !" 

That  seemed  to  him,  evidently,  a  more  convincing  argu 
ment  than  his  comrade's. 

"Bill  is  sure  right,  if  I'm  wrong,  which  I  ain't,"  went 
on  the  other.  "Lin,  we've  trailed  thet  wild  stallion  for 
six  weeks.  Thet's  the  longest  chase  he  ever  had.  He's 
left  his  old  range.  He's  cut  out  his  band,  an'  left  them, 
one  by  one.  We've  tried  every  trick  we  know  on  him. 
An'  he's  too  smart  for  us.  There's  a  hoss!  Why,  Lin, 
we're  all  but  gone  to  the  dogs  chasm'  Wildfire.  An'  now 
I'm  done,  an'  I'm  glad  of  it." 

There  was  another  short  silence,  which  presently  Bill 
opened  his  lips  to  break. 

"Lin,  it  makes  me  sick  to  quit.  I  ain't  denyin'  thet 
for  a  long  time  I've  had  hopes  of  ketchin'  Wildfire.  He's 
the  grandest  hoss  I  ever  laid  eyes  on.  I  reckon  no  man, 
onless  he  was  an  Arab,  ever  seen  as  good  a  one.  But  now, 
thet's  neither  here  nor  there.  .  .  .  We've  got  to  hit  the 
back  trail." 

"Boys,  I  reckon  I'll  stick  to  Wildfire's  tracks,"  said 
Lin,  in  the  same  quiet  tone. 

Bill  swore  at  him,  and  the  other  hunter  grew  excited 
and  concerned. 

"Lin  Slone,  are  you  gone  plumb  crazy  over  thet  red 
hoss?" 

"I — reckon,"  replied  Slone.  The  working  of  his  throat 
as  he  swallowed  could  be  plainly  seen  by  his  companions. 

Bill  looked  at  his  ally  as  if  to  confirm  some  sudden 
understanding  between  them.  They  took  Slone's  atti 
tude  gravely  and  they  wagged  their  heads  doubtfully, 
as  they  might  have  done  had  Slone  just  acquainted  them 

46 


WILDFIRE 

with  a  hopeless  and  deathless  passion  for  a  woman.  It 
was  significant  of  the  nature  of  riders  that  they  accepted 
his  attitude  and  had  consideration  for  his  feelings.  For 
them  the  situation  subtly  changed.  For  weeks  they  had 
been  three  wild-horse  wranglers  on  a  hard  chase  after  a 
valuable  stallion.  They  had  failed  to  get  even  close  to 
him.  They  had  gone  to  the  limit  of  their  endurance  and 
of  the  outfit,  and  it  was  time  to  turn  back.  But  Slone 
had  conceived  that  strange  and  rare  longing  for  a  horse — 
a  passion  understood,  if  not  shared,  by  all  riders.  And 
they  knew  that  he  would  catch  Wildfire  or  die  in  the 
attempt.  From  that  moment  their  attitude  toward 
Slone  changed  as  subtly  as  had  come  the  knowledge  of  his 
feeling.  The  gravity  and  gloom  left  their  faces.  It 
seemed  they  might  have  regretted  what  they  had  said 
about  the  futility  of  catching  Wildfire.  They  did  not 
want  Slone  to  see  or  feel  the  hopelessness  of  his  task. 

"I  tell  you,  Lin,"  said  Bill,  "your  hoss  Nagger's  as 
good  as  when  we  started." 

"Aw,  he's  better,"  vouchsafed  the  other  rider.  "Nag 
ger  needed  to  lose  some  weight.  Lin,  have  you  got  an 
extra  set  of  shoes  for  him?" 

"No  full  set.     Only  three  left,"  replied  Lin,  soberly. 

"Wai,  thet's  enough.  You  can  keep  Nagger  shod. 
An*  mebbe  thet  red  stallion  will  get  sore  feet  an'  go  lame. 
Then  you'd  stand  a  chance." 

"But  Wildfire  keeps  travelin'  the  valleys— the  soft 
ground,"  said  Slone. 

"No  matter.  He's  leavin'  the  country,  an'  he's  bound 
to  strike  sandstone  sooner  or  later.  Then,  by  gosh! 
mebbe  he'll  wear  off  them  hoofs." 

"Say,  can't  he  ring  bells  offen  the  rocks?"  exclaimed 
Bill.  "Oh,  Lordy!  what  a  hoss!" 

"Boys,  do  you  think  he's  leavin'  the  country?"  in 
quired  Slone,  anxiously. 

"Sure  he  is,"  replied  Bill.  "He  ain't  the  first  stallion 
I've  chased  off  the  Sevier  range.  An'  I  know.  It's  a 

47 


WILDFIRE 

stallion  thet  makes  for  new  country,  when  you  push  him 
hard." 

"Yep,  Lin,  he's  sure  leavin',"  added  the  other  com 
rade.  "Why,  he's  traveled  a  bee-line  for  days!  I'll  bet 
he's  seen  us  many  a  time.  Wildfire's  about  as  smart  as 
any  man.  He  was  born  wild,  an'  his  dam  was  born  wild, 
an'  there  you  have  it.  The  wildest  of  all  wild  creatures — 
a  wild  stallion,  with  the  intelligence  of  a  man!  A  grand 
hoss,  Lin,  but  one  thet  '11  be  hell,  if  you  ever  ketch  him. 
He  has  killed  stallions  all  over  the  Sevier  range.  A  wild 
stallion  thet's  a  killer !  I  never  liked  him  for  thet.  Could 
he  be  broke?" 

"I'll  break  him,"  said  Lin  Slone,  grimly.  "It's  gettin' 
him  thet's  the  job.  I've  got  patience  to  break  a  hoss. 
But  patience  can't  catch  a  streak  of  lightnin'." 

" Nope;  you're  right,"  replied  Bill.  "If  you  have  some 
luck  you'll  get  him — mebbe.  If  he  wears  out  his  feet, 
or  if  you  crowd  him  into  a  narrow  canon,  or  run  him  into 
a  bad  place  where  he  can't  get  by  you.  Thet  might  hap 
pen.  An'  then,  with  Nagger,  you  stand  a  chance.  Did 
you  ever  tire  thet  hoss?" 

"Not  yet." 

"An'  how  fur  did  you  ever  run  him  without  a  break? 
Why,  when  we  ketched  thet  sorrel  last  year  I  rode  Nagger 
myself — thirty  miles,  most  at  a  hard  gallop.  An'  he 
never  turned  a  hair!" 

"I've  beat  thet,"  replied  Lin.  "He  could  run  hard 
fifty  miles — mebbe  more.  Honestly,  I  never  seen  him 
tired  yet.  If  only  he  was  fast!" 

"Wai,  Nagger  ain't  so  durned  slow,  come  to  think  of 
thet,"  replied  Bill,  with  a  grunt.  "He's  good  enough  for 
you  not  to  want  another  hoss." 

"Lin,  you're  goin'  to  wear  out  Wildfire,  an'  then  trap 
him  somehow — is  thet  the  plan?"  asked  the  other  com 
rade. 

"I  haven't  any  plan.  I'll  just  trail  him,  like  a  cougar 
trails  a  deer." 

48 


WILDFIRE 

"Lin,  if  Wildfire  gives  you  the  slip  he'll  have  to  fly. 
You've  got  the  best  eyes  for  tracks  of  any  wrangler  in 
Utah." 

Slone  accepted  the  compliment  with  a  fleeting,  doubt 
ful  smile  on  his  dark  face.  He  did  not  reply,  and  no 
more  was  said  by  his  comrades.  They  rolled  with  backs 
to  the  fire.  Slone  put  on  more  wood,  for  the  keen  wind 
was  cold  and  cutting;  and  then  he  lay  down,  his  head  in 
his  saddle,  with  a  goatskin  under  him  and  a  saddle- 
blanket  over  him. 

All  three  were  soon  asleep.  The  wind  whipped  the  sand 
and  ashes  and  smoke  over  the  sleepers.  Coyotes  barked 
from  near  in  darkness,  and  from  the  valley  ridge  came 
the  faint  mourn  of  a  hunting  wolf.  The  desert  night 
grew  darker  and  colder. 

The  Stewart  brothers  were  wild-horse  hunters  for  the 
sake  of  trades  and  occasional  sales.  But  Lin  Slone  never 
traded  nor  sold  a  horse  he  had  captured.  The  excitement 
of  the  game,  and  the  lure  of  the  desert,  and  the  love  of  a 
horse  were  what  kept  him  at  the  profitless  work.  His 
type  was  rare  in  the  uplands. 

These  were  the  early  days  of  the  settlement  of  Utah, 
and  only  a  few  of  the  hardiest  and  most  adventurous 
pioneers  had  penetrated  the  desert  in  the  southern  part 
of  that  vast  upland.  And  with  them  came  some  of  that 
wild  breed  of  riders  to  which  Slone  and  the  Stewarts 
belonged.  Horses  were  really  more  important  and  neces 
sary  than  men;  and  this  singular  fact  gave  these  lonely 
riders  a  calling. 

Before  the  Spaniards  came  there  were  no  horses  in  the 
West.  Those  explorers  left  or  lost  horses  all  over  the 
southwest.  Many  of  them  were  Arabian  horses  of  purest 
blood.  American  explorers  and  travelers,  at  the  outset 
of  the  nineteenth  century,  encountered  countless  droves 
of  wild  horses  all  over  the  plains.  Across  the  Grand 
Canon,  however,  wild  horses  were  comparatively  few  in 

49 


WILDFIRE 

number  in  the  early  days;  and  these  had  probably  come 
in  by  way  of  California. 

The  Stewarts  and  Slone  had  no  established  mode  of 
catching  wild  horses.  The  game  had  not  developed  fast 
enough  for  that.  Every  chase  of  horse  or  drove  was 
different;  and  once  in  many  attempts  they  met  with 
success. 

A  favorite  method  originated  by  the  Stewarts  was  to 
find  a  water-hole  frequented  by  the  band  of  horses  or  the 
stallion  wanted,  and  to  build  round  this  hole  a  corral  with 
an  opening  for  the  horses  to  get  in.  Then  the  hunters 
would  watch  the  trap  at  night,  and  if  the  horses  went 
in  to  drink,  a  gate  was  closed  across  the  opening.  Another 
method  of  the  Stewarts  was  to  trail  a  coveted  horse  up 
on  a  mesa  or  highland,  places  which  seldom  had  more 
than  one  trail  of  ascent  and  descent,  and  there  block  the 
escape,  and  cut  lines  of  cedars,  into  which  the  quarry 
was  run  till  captured.  Still  another  method,  discovered 
by  accident,  was  to  shoot  a  horse  lightly  in  the  neck  and 
sting  him.  This  last,  called  creasing,  was  seldom  success 
ful,  and  for  that  matter  in  any  method  ten  times  as  many 
horses  were  killed  as  captured. 

Lin  Slone  helped  the  Stewarts  in  their  own  way,  but 
he  had  no  especial  liking  for  their  tricks.  Perhaps  a  few 
remarkable  captures  of  remarkable  horses  had  spoiled 
Slone.  He  was  always  trying  what  the  brothers  claimed 
to  be  impossible.  He  was  a  fearless  rider,  but  he  had  the 
fault  of  saving  his  mount,  and  to  kill  a  wild  horse  was  a 
tragedy  for  him.  He  would  much  rather  have  hunted 
alone,  and  he  had  been  alone  on  the  trail  of  the  stallion 
Wildfire  when  the  Stewarts  had  joined  him. 

Lin  Slone  awoke  next  morning  and  rolled  out  of  his 
blanket  at  his  usual  early  hour.  But  he  was  not  early 
enough  to  say  good-by  to  the  Stewarts.  They  were  gone. 

The  fact  surprised  him  and  somehow  relieved  him. 
They  had  left  him  more  than  his  share  of  the  outfit,  and 

50 


WILDFIRE 

perhaps  that  was  why  they  had  slipped  off  before  dawn. 
They  knew  him  well  enough  to  know  that  he  would  not 
have  accepted  it.  Besides,  perhaps  they  felt  a  little 
humiliation  at  abandoning  a  chase  which  he  chose  to 
keep  up.  Anyway,  they  were  gone,  apparently  without 
breakfast. 

The  morning  was  clear,  cool,  with  the  air  dark  like  that 
before  a  storm,  and  in  the  east,  over  the  steely  wall  of 
stone,  shone  a  redness  growing  brighter. 

Slone  looked  away  to  the  west,  down  the  trail  taken 
by  his  comrades,  but  he  saw  nothing  moving  against  that 
cedar-dotted  waste. 

"Good-by,"  he  said,  and  he  spoke  as  if  he  was  saying 
good-by  to  more  than  comrades. 

"I  reckon  I  won't  see  Sevier  Village  soon  again — an* 
maybe  never,"  he  soliloquized. 

There  was  no  one  to  regret  him,  unless  it  was  old 
Mother  Hall,  who  had  been  kind  to  him  on  those  rare 
occasions  when  he  got  out  of  the  wilderness.  Still,  it  was 
with  regret  that  he  gazed  away  across  the  red  valley  to 
the  west.  Slone  had  no  home.  His  father  and  mother 
had  been  lost  in  the  massacre  of  a  wagon-train  by  Indians, 
and  he  had  been  one  of  the  few  saved  and  brought  to 
Salt  Lake.  That  had  happened  when  he  was  ten  years 
old.  His  life  thereafter  had  been  hard,  and  but  for  his 
sturdy  Texas  training  he  might  not  have  survived.  The 
last  five  years  he  had  been  a  horse-hunter  in  the  wild 
uplands  of  Nevada  and  Utah. 

Slone  turned  his  attention  to  the  pack  of  supplies. 
The  Stewarts  had  divided  the  flour  and  the  parched  corn 
equally,  and  unless  he  was  greatly  mistaken  they  had 
left  him  most  of  the  coffee  and  all  of  the  salt. 

"Now  I  hold  that  decent  of  Bill  an'  Abe,"  said  Slone, 
regretfully.  "But  I  could  have  got  along  without  it 
better  'n  they  could." 

Then  he  swiftly  set  about  kindling  a  fire  and  getting  a 
meal.  In  the  midst  of  his  task  a  sudden  ruddy  bright- 

5  Si 


WILDFIRE 

ness  fell  around  him.  Lin  Slone  paused  in  his  work  to 
look  up. 

The  sun  had  risen  over  the  eastern  wall. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  and  drew  a  deep  breath. 

The  cold,  steely,  darkling  sweep  of  desert  had  been 
transformed.  It  was  now  a  world  of  red  earth  and  gold 
rocks  and  purple  sage,  with  everywhere  the  endless 
straggling  green  cedars.  A  breeze  whipped  in,  making 
the  fire  roar  softly.  The  sun  felt  warm  on  his  cheek. 
And  at  the  moment  he  heard  the  whistle  of  his  horse. 

"Good  old  Nagger!"  he  said.  "I  shore  won't  have  to 
track  you  this  morninV 

Presently  he  went  off  into  the  cedars  to  find  Nagger 
and  the  mustang  that  he  used  to  carry  a  pack.  Nagger 
was  grazing  in  a  little  open  patch  among  the  trees,  but 
the  pack-horse  was  missing.  Slone  seemed  to  know  in 
what  direction  to  go  to  find  the  trail,  for  he  came  upon 
it  very  soon.  The  pack-horse  wore  hobbles,  but  he  be 
longed  to  the  class  that  could  cover  a  great  deal  of  ground 
when  hobbled.  Slone  did  not  expect  the  horse  to  go  far, 
considering  that  the  grass  thereabouts  was  good.  But 
in  a  wild-horse  country  it  was  not  safe  to  give  any  horse 
a  chance.  The  call  of  his  wild  brethren  was  irresistible. 
Slone,  however,  found  the  mustang  standing  quietly  in 
a  clump  of  cedars,  and,  removing  the  hobbles,  he  mounted 
and  rode  back  to  camp.  Nagger  caught  sight  of  him 
and  came  at  his  call. 

This  horse  Nagger  appeared  as  unique  in  his  class  as 
Slone  was  rare  among  riders.  Nagger  seemed  of  several 
colors,  though  black  predominated.  His  coat  was  shaggy, 
almost  woolly,  like  that  of  a  sheep.  He  was  huge,  raw- 
boned,  knotty,  long  of  body  and  long  of  leg,  with  the 
head  of  a  war  charger.  His  build  did  not  suggest  speed. 
There  appeared  to  be  something  slow  and  ponderous 
about  him,  similar  to  an  elephant,  with  the  same  sugges 
tion  of  power  and  endurance. 

Slone  discarded  the  pack-saddle  and  bags.  The  latter 

52 


WILDFIRE 

were  almost  empty.  He  roped  the  tarpaulin  on  the  back 
of  the  mustang,  and,  making  a  small  bundle  of  his  few 
supplies,  he  tied  that  to  the  tarpaulin.  His  blanket  he 
used  for  a  saddle-blanket  on  Nagger.  Of  the  utensils 
left  by  the  Stewarts  he  chose  a  couple  of  small  iron  pans, 
with  long  handles.  The  rest  he  left.  In  his  saddle-bags 
he  had  a  few  extra  horseshoes,  some  nails,  bullets  for  his 
rifle,  and  a  knife  with  a  heavy  blade. 

"Not  a  rich  outfit  for  a  far  country,"  he  mused.  Slone 
did  not  talk  very  much,  and  when  he  did  he  addressed 
Nagger  and  himself  simultaneously.  Evidently  he  ex 
pected  a  long  chase,  one  from  which  he  would  not 
return,  and  light  as  his  outfit  was  it  would  grow  too 
heavy. 

Then  he  mounted  and  rode  down  the  gradual  slope, 
facing  the  valley  and  the  black,  bold,  flat  mountain  to 
the  southeast.  Some  few  hundred  yards  from  camp  he 
halted  Nagger  and  bent  over  in  the  saddle  to  scrutinize 
the  ground. 

The  clean-cut  track  of  a  horse  showed  in  the  bare,  hard 
sand.  The  hoof-marks  were  large,  almost  oval,  perfect 
in  shape,  and  manifestly  they  were  beautiful  to  Lin 
Slone.  He  gazed  at  them  for  a  long  time,  and  then  he 
looked  across  the  dotted  red  valley  up  the  vast  ridgy 
steps,  toward  the  black  plateau  and  beyond.  It  was  the 
look  that  an  Indian  gives  to  a  strange  country.  Then 
Slone  slipped  off  the  saddle  and  knelt  to  scrutinize  the 
horse  tracks.  A  little  sand  had  blown  into  the  depres 
sions,  and  some  of  it  was  wet  and  some  of  it  was  dry. 
He  took  his  time  about  examining  it,  and  he  even  tried 
gently  blowing  other  sand  into  the  tracks,  to  compare 
that  with  what  was  already  there.  Finally  he  stood  up 
and  addressed  Nagger. 

"Reckon  we  won't  have  to  argue  with  Abe  an'  Bill  this 
mornin',"  he  said,  with  satisfaction.  "Wildfire  made 
that  track  yesterday,  before  sun-up." 

Thereupon  Slone  remounted  and  put  Nagger  to  a  trot. 

53 


WILDFIRE 

The  pack-horse  followed  with  an  alacrity  that  showed  he 
had  no  desire  for  loneliness. 

As  straight  as  a  bee-line  Wildfire  had  left  a  trail  down 
into  the  floor  of  the  valley.  He  had  not  stopped  to  graze, 
and  he  had  not  looked  for  water.  Slone  had  hoped  to 
find  a  water-hole  in  one  of  the  deep  washes  in  the  red  earth, 
but  if  there  had  been  any  water  there  Wildfire  would 
have  scented  it.  He  had  not  had  a  drink  for  three  days 
that  Slone  knew  of.  And  Nagger  had  not  drunk  for  forty 
hours.  Slone  had  a  canvas  water-bag  hanging  over  the 
pommel,  but  it  was  a  habit  of  his  to  deny  himself,  as  far 
as  possible,  till  his  horse  could  drink  also.  Like  an  Ind 
ian,  Slone  ate  and  drank  but  little. 

It  took  four  hours  of  steady  trotting  to  reach  the 
middle  and  bottom  of  that  wide,  flat  valley.  A  network 
of  washes  cut  up  the  whole  center  of  it,  and  they  were  all 
as  dry  as  bleached  bone.  To  cross  these  Slone  had  only 
to  keep  Wildfire's  trail.  And  it  was  proof  of  Nagger's 
quality  that  he  did  not  have  to  veer  from  the  stallion's 
course. 

It  was  hot  down  in  the  lowland.  The  heat  struck 
up,  reflected  from  the  sand.  But  it  was  a  March 
sun,  and  no  more  than  pleasant  to  Slone.  The  wind 
rose,  however,  and  blew  dust  and  sand  in  the  faces  of 
horse  and  rider.  Except  lizards  Slone  did  not  see  any 
living  things. 

Miles  of  low  greasewood  and  sparce  yellow  sage 
led  to  the  first  almost  imperceptible  rise  of  the  valley 
floor  on  that  side.  The  distant  cedars  beckoned  to 
Slone.  He  was  not  patient,  because  he  was  on  the 
trail  of  Wildfire;  but,  nevertheless,  the  hours  seemed 
short. 

Slone  had  no  past  to  think  about,  and  the  future  held 
nothing  except  a  horse,  and  so  his  thoughts  revolved  the 
possibilities  connected  with  this  chase  of  Wildfire.  The 
chase  was  hopeless  in  such  country  as  he  was  traversing, 
and  if  Wildfire  chose  to  roam  around  valleys  like  this  one 

54 


WILDFIRE 

Slone  would  fail  utterly.  But  the  stallion  had  long  ago 
left  his  band  of  horses,  and  then,  one  by  one  his  favorite 
consorts,  and  now  he  was  alone,  headed  with  unerring 
instinct  for  wild,  untrammeled  ranges.  He  had  been 
used  to  the  pure,  cold  water  and  the  succulent  grass  of  the 
cold  desert  uplands.  Assuredly  he  would  not  tarry  in 
such  barren  lands  as  these. 

For  Slone  an  ever-present  and  growing  fascination  lay 
in  Wildfire's  clear,  sharply  defined  tracks.  It  was  as  if 
every  hoof-mark  told  him  something.  Once,  far  up  the 
interminable  ascent,  he  found  on  a  ridge-top  tracks  show 
ing  where  Wildfire  had  halted  and  turned. 

"Ha,  Nagger!"  cried  Slone,  exultingly.  "Look  there! 
He's  begun  facin'  about.  He's  wonderin'  if  we're  still 
after  him.  He's  worried.  .  .  .  But  we'll  keep  out  of  sight 
— a  day  behind." 

When  Slone  reached  the  cedars  the  sun  was  low  down 
in  the  west.  He  looked  back  across  the  fifty  miles  of 
valley  to  the  colored  cliffs  and  walls.  He  seemed  to  be 
above  them  now,  and  the  cool  air,  with  tang  of  cedar  and 
juniper,  strengthened  the  impression  that  he  had  climbed 
high. 

A  mile  or  more  ahead  of  him  rose  a  gray  cliff  with 
breaks  in  it  and  a  line  of  dark  cedars  or  pifions  on  the 
level  rims.  He  believed  these  breaks  to  be  the  mouths 
of  canons,  and  so  it  turned  out.  Wildfire's  trail  led  into 
the  mouth  of  a  narrow  canon  with  very  steep  and  high 
walls.  Nagger  snorted  his  perception  of  water,  and  the 
mustang  whistled.  Wildfire's  tracks  led  to  a  point  under 
the  wall  where  a  spring  gushed  forth.  There  were 
mountain-lion  and  deer  tracks  also,  as  well  as  those  of 
smaller  game. 

Slone  made  camp  here.  The  mustang  was  tired.  But 
Nagger,  upon  taking  a  long  drink,  rolled  in  the  grass  as 
if  he  had  just  begun  the  trip.  After  eating,  Slone  took  his 
rifle  and  went  out  to  look  for  deer.  But  there  appeared 
to  be  none  at  hand.  He  came  across  many  lion  tracks, 

55 


WILDFIRE 

and  saw,  with  apprehension,  where  one  had  taken  Wild 
fire's  trail.  Wildfire  had  grazed  up  the  canon,  keeping 
on  and  on,  and  he  was  likely  to  go  miles  in  a  night.  Slone 
reflected  that  as  small  as  were  his  own  chances  of  getting 
Wildfire,  they  were  still  better  than  those  of  a  mountain- 
lion.  Wildfire  was  the  most  cunning  of  all  animals — 
a  wild  stallion;  his  speed  and  endurance  were  incom 
parable;  his  scent  as  keen  as  those  animals  that  relied 
wholly  upon  scent  to  warn  them  of  danger,  and  as  for 
sight,  it  was  Slone's  belief  that  no  hoofed  creature,  except 
the  mountain-sheep  used  to  high  altitudes,  could  see  as 
far  as  a  wild  horse. 

It  bothered  Slone  a  little  that  he  was  getting  into  a 
lion  country.  Nagger  showed  nervousness,  something 
unusual  for  him.  Slone  tied  both  horses  with  long  halters 
and  stationed  them  on  patches  of  thick  grass.  Then  he 
put  a  cedar  stump  on  the  fire  and  went  to  sleep.  Upon 
awakening  and  going  to  the  spring  he  was  somewhat 
chagrined  to  see  that  deer  had  come  down  to  drink 
early.  Evidently  they  were  numerous.  A  lion  country 
was  always  a  deer  country,  for  the  lions  followed  the 
deer. 

Slone  was  packed  and  saddled  and  on  his  way  before 
the  sun  reddened  the  canon  wall.  He  walked  the  horses. 
From  time  to  time  he  saw  signs  of  Wildfire's  consistent 
progress.  The  canon  narrowed  and  the  walls  grew  lower 
and  the  grass  increased.  There  was  a  decided  ascent  all 
the  time.  Slone  could  find  no  evidence  that  the  canon 
had  ever  been  traveled  by  hunters  or  Indians.  The  day 
was  pleasant  and  warm  and  still.  Every  once  in  a  while 
a  little  breath  of  wind  would  bring  a  fragrance  of  cedar 
and  pinon,  and  a  sweet  hint  of  pine  and  sage.  At  every 
turn  he  looked  ahead,  expecting  to  see  the  green  or  pine 
and  the  gray  of  sage.  Toward  the  middle  of  the  after 
noon,  coming  to  a  place  where  Wildfire  had  taken  to  a 
trot,  he  put  Nagger  to  that  gait,  and  by  sundown  had 
worked  up  to  where  the  canon  was  only  a  shallow  ravine. 

56 


WILDFIRE 

And  finally  it  turned  once  more,  to  lose  itself  in  a  level 
where  straggling  pines  stood  high  above  the  cedars,  and 
great,  dark-green  silver  spruces  stood  above  the  pines. 
And  here  were  patches  of  sage,  fresh  and  pungent,  and 
long  reaches  of  bleached  grass.  It  was  the  edge  of  a 
forest.  Wildfire's  trail  went  on.  Slone  came  at  length 
to  a  group  of  pines,  and  here  he  found  the  remains  of  a 
camp-fire,  and  some  flint  arrow-heads.  Indians  had  been 
in  there,  probably  having  come  from  the  opposite  direc 
tion  to  Slone's.  This  encouraged  him,  for  where  Indians 
could  hunt  so  could  he.  Soon  he  was  entering  a  forest 
where  cedars  and  pinons  and  pines  began  to  grow  thickly. 
Presently  he  came  upon  a  faintly  defined  trail,  just  a  dim, 
dark  line  even  to  an  experienced  eye.  But  it  was  a  trail, 
and  Wildfire  had  taken  it. 

Slone  halted  for  the  night.  The  air  was  cold.  And 
the  dampness  of  it  gave  him  an  idea  there  were  snow 
banks  somewhere  not  far  distant.  The  dew  was  already 
heavy  on  the  grass.  He  hobbled  the  horses  and  put  a 
bell  on  Nagger.  A  bell  might  frighten  lions  that  had 
never  heard  one.  Then  he  built  a  fire  and  cooked  his 
meal. 

It  had  been  long  since  he  had  camped  high  up  among 
the  pines.  The  sough  of  the  wind  pleased  him,  like  music. 
There  had  begun  to  be  prospects  of  pleasant  experience 
along  with  the  toil  of  chasing  Wildfire.  He  was  entering 
new  and  strange  and  beautiful  country.  How  far  might 
the  chase  take  him?  He  did  not  care.  He  was  not 
sleepy,  but  even  if  he  had  been  it  developed  that  he  must 
wait  till  the  coyotes  ceased  their  barking  round  his  camp- 
fire.  They  came  so  close  that  he  saw  their  gray  shadows 
in  the  gloom.  But  presently  they  wearied  of  yelping  at 
him  and  went  away.  After  that  the  silence,  broken  only 
by  the  wind  as  it  roared  and  lulled,  seemed  beautiful  to 
Slone.  He  lost  completely  that  sense  of  vague  regret 
which  had  remained  with  him,  and  he  forgot  the  Stewarts. 
And  suddenly  he  felt  absolutely  free,  alone,  with  nothing 

57 


WILDFIRE 

behind  to  remember,  with  wild,  thrilling,  nameless  life 
before  him.  Just  then  the  long  mourn  of  a  timber  wolf 
wailed  in  with  the  wind.  Seldom  had  he  heard  the  cry 
of  one  of  those  night  wanderers.  There  was  nothing  like 
it — no  sound  like  it  to  fix  in  the  lone  camper's  heart  the 
great  solitude  and  the  wild. 


CHAPTER  V 

IN  the  early  morning  when  all  was  gray  and  the  big, 
dark  pines  were  shadowy  specters,  Slone  was  awakened 
by  the  cold.  His  hands  were  so  numb  that  he  had  diffi 
culty  starting  a  fire.  He  stood  over  the  blaze,  warming 
them.  The  air  was  nipping,  clear  and  thin,  and  sweet 
with  frosty  fragrance. 

Daylight  came  while  he  was  in  the  midst  of  his  morn 
ing  meal.  A  white  frost  covered  the  ground  and  crackled 
under  his  feet  as  he  went  out  to  bring  in  the  horses.  He 
saw  fresh  deer  tracks.  Then  he  went  back  to  camp  for 
his  rifle.  Keeping  a  sharp  lookout  for  game,  he  con 
tinued  his  search  for  the  horses. 

The  forest  was  open  and  park-like.  There  were  no 
fallen  trees  or  evidences  of  fire.  Presently  he  came  to  a 
wide  glade  in  the  midst  of  which  Nagger  and  the  pack- 
mustang  were  grazing  with  a  herd  of  deer.  The  size  of 
the  latter  amazed  Slone.  The  deer  he  had  hunted  back 
on  the  Sevier  range  were  much  smaller  than  these. 
Evidently  these  were  mule  deer,  closely  allied  to  the  elk. 
They  were  so  tame  they  stood  facing  him  curiously,  with 
long  ears  erect.  It  was  sheer  murder  to  kill  a  deer  stand 
ing  and  watching  like  that,  but  Slone  was  out  of  meat 
and  hungry  and  facing  a  long,  hard  trip.  He  shot  a 
buck,  which  leaped  spasmodically  away,  trying  to  follow 
the  herd,  and  fell  at  the  edge  of  the  glade.  Slone  cut  out 
a  haunch,  and  then,  catching  the  horses,  he  returned  to 
camp,  where  he  packed  and  saddled,  and  at  once  rode 
out  on  the  dim  trail. 

The  wildness  of  the  country  he  was  entering  was  evi- 

59 


WILDFIRE 

dent  in  the  fact  that  as  he  passed  the  glade  where  he  had 
shot  the  deer  a  few  minutes  before,  there  were  coyotes 
quarreling  over  the  carcass. 

Slone  could  see  ahead  and  on  each  side  several  hundred 
yards,  and  presently  he  ascertained  that  the  forest  floor 
was  not  so  level  as  he  had  supposed.  He  had  entered  a 
valley  or  was  traversing  a  wide,  gently  sloping  pass.  He 
went  through  thickets  of  juniper,  and  had  to  go  around 
clumps  of  quaking  asp.  The  pines  grew  larger  and  farther 
apart.  Cedars  and  pinons  had  been  left  behind,  and  he 
had  met  with  no  silver  spruces  after  leaving  camp.  Prob 
ably  that  point  was  the  height  of  a  divide.  There  were 
banks  of  snow  in  some  of  the  hollows  on  the  north  side. 
Evidently  the  snow  had  very  recently  melted,  and  it  was 
evident  also  that  the  depth  of  snow  through  here  had 
been  fully  ten  feet,  judging  from  the  mutilation  of  the 
juniper-trees  where  the  deer,  standing  on  the  hard,  frozen 
crust,  had  browsed  upon  the  branches. 

The  quiet  of  the  forest  thrilled  Slone.  And  the  only 
movement  was  the  occasional  gray  flash  of  a  deer  or 
coyote  across  a  glade.  No  birds  of  any  species  crossed 
Slone's  sight.  He  came,  presently,  upon  a  lion  track  in 
the  trail,  made  probably  a  day  before.  Slone  grew  curi 
ous  about  it,  seeing  how  it  held,  as  he  was  holding,  to 
Wildfire's  tracks.  After  a  mile  or  so  he  made  sure  the 
lion  had  been  trailing  the  stallion,  and  for  a  second  he  felt 
a  cold  contraction  of  his  heart.  Already  he  loved  Wild 
fire,  and  by  virtue  of  all  this  toil  of  travel  considered  the 
wild  horse  his  property. 

"No  lion  could  ever  get  close  to  Wildfire,"  he  solilo 
quized,  with  a  short  laugh.  Of  that  he  was  absolutely 
certain. 

The  sun  rose,  melting  the  frost,  and  a  breath  of  warm 
air,  laden  with  the  scent  of  pine,  moved  heavily  under 
the  huge,  yellow  trees.  Slone  passed  a  point  where  the 
remains  of  an  old  camp-fire  and  a  pile  of  deer  antlers 
were  further  proof  that  Indians  visited  this  plateau  to 

60 


WILDFIRE 

hunt.  From  this  camp  broader,  more  deeply  defined  trails 
led  away  to  the  south  and  east.  Slone  kept  to  the  east 
trail,  in  which  Wildfire's  tracks  and  those  of  the  lion 
showed  clearly.  It  was  about  the  middle  of  the  forenoon 
when  the  tracks  of  the  stallion  and  lion  left  the  trail  to 
lead  up  a  little  draw  where  grass  grew  thick.  Slone  fol 
lowed,  reading  the  signs  of  Wildfire's  progress,  and  the 
action  of  his  pursuer,  as  well  as  if  he  had  seen  them.  Here 
the  stallion  had  plowed  into  a  snow-bank,  eating  a  hole 
two  feet  deep;  then  he  had  grazed  around  a  little;  then 
on  and  on;  there  his  splendid  tracks  were  deep  in  the 
soft  earth.  Slone  knew  what  to  expect  when  the  track 
of  the  lion  veered  from  those  of  the  horse,  and  he  followed 
the  lion  tracks.  The  ground  was  soft  from  the  late  melt 
ing  of  snow,  and  Nagger  sunk  deep.  The  lion  left  a  plain 
track.  Here  he  stole  steadily  along;  there  he  left  many 
tracks  at  a  point  where  he  might  have  halted  to  make 
sure  of  his  scent.  He  was  circling  on  the  trail  of  the 
stallion,  with  cunning  intent  of  ambush.  The  end  of  this 
slow,  careful  stalk  of  the  lion,  as  told  in  his  tracks,  came 
upon  the  edge  of  a  knoll  where  he  had  crouched  to  watch 
and  wait.  From  this  perch  he  had  made  a  magnificent 
spring — Slone  estimating  it  to  be  forty  feet — but  he  had 
missed  the  stallion.  There  were  Wildfire's  tracks  again, 
slow  and  short,  and  then  deep  and  sharp  where  in  the 
impetus  of  fright  he  had  sprung  out  of  reach.  A  second 
leap  of  the  lion,  and  then  lessening  bounds,  and  finally 
an  abrupt  turn  from  Wildfire's  trail  told  the  futility  of 
that  stalk.  Slone  made  certain  that  Wildfire  was  so 
keen  that  as  he  grazed  along  he  had  kept  to  open  ground. 

Wildfire  had  run  for  a  mile,  then  slowed  down  to  a 
trot,  and  he  had  circled  to  get  back  to  the  trail  he  had 
left.  Slone  believed  the  horse  was  just  so  intelligent. 
At  any  rate,  Wildfire  struck  the  trail  again,  and  turned  at 
right  angles  to  follow  it. 

Here  the  forest  floor  appeared  perfectly  level.  Patches 
of  snow  became  frequent,  and  larger  as  Slone  went  on. 

61 


WILDFIRE 

At  length  the  patches  closed  up,  and  soon  extended  as  far 
as  he  could  see.  It  was  soft,  affording  difficult  travel. 
Slone  crossed  hundreds  of  deer  tracks,  and  the  trail  he  was 
on  eventually  became  a  deer  runway. 

Presently,  far  down  one  of  the  aisles  between  the  great 
pines  Slone  saw  what  appeared  to  be  a  yellow  cliff,  far 
away.  It  puzzled  him.  And  as  he  went  on  he  received 
the  impression  that  the  forest  dropped  out  of  sight  ahead. 
Then  the  trees  grew  thicker,  obstructing  his  view.  Pres 
ently  the  trail  became  soggy  and  he  had  to  help  his  horse. 
The  mustang  floundered  in  the  soft  snow  and  earth. 
Cedars  and  pinons  appeared  again,  making  travel  still 
more  laborious. 

All  at  once  there  came  to  Slone  a  strange  consciousness 
of  light  and  wind  and  space  and  void.  On  the  instant 
his  horse  halted  with  a  snort.  Slone  quickly  looked  up. 
Had  he  come  to  the  end  of  the  world?  An  abyss,  a 
canon,  yawned  beneath  him,  beyond  all  comparison  in  its 
greatness.  His  keen  eye,  educated  to  desert  distance 
and  dimension,  swept  down  and  across,  taking  in  the 
tremendous  truth,  before  it  staggered  his  comprehension. 
But  a  second  sweeping  glance,  slower,  becoming  intoxi 
cated  with  what  it  beheld,  saw  gigantic  cliff-steps  and 
yellow  slopes  dotted  with  cedars,  leading  down  to  clefts 
filled  with  purple  smoke,  and  these  led  on  and  on  to  a 
ragged  red  world  of  rock,  bare,  shining,  bold,  uplifted  in 
mesa,  dome,  peak,  and  crag,  clear  and  strange  in  the 
morning  light,  still  and  sleeping  like  death. 

This,  then,  was  the  great  canon,  which  had  seemed  like 
a  hunter's  fable  rather  than  truth.  Slone's  sight  dimmed, 
blurring  the  spectacle,  and  he  found  that  his  eyes  had 
filled  with  tears.  He  wiped  them  away  and  looked 
again  and  again,  until  he  was  confounded  by  the  vastness 
and  the  grandeur  and  the  vague  sadness  of  the  scene. 
Nothing  he  had  ever  looked  at  had  affected  him  like  this 
canon,  although  the  Stewarts  had  tried  to  prepare  him 
for  it. 

62 


WILDFIRE 

It  was  the  horse-hunter's  passion  that  reminded  him 
of  his  pursuit.  The  deer  trail  led  down  through  a 
break  in  the  wall.  Only  a  few  rods  of  it  could  be  seen. 
This  trail  was  passable,  even  though  choked  with  snow. 
But  the  depth  beyond  this  wall  seemed  to  fascinate  Slone 
and  hold  him  back,  used  as  he  was  to  desert  trails.  Then 
the  clean  mark  of  Wildfire's  hoof  brought  back  the  old  thrill. 

"This  place  fits  you,  Wildfire,"  muttered  Slone,  dis 
mounting. 

He  started  down,  leading  Nagger.  The  mustang  fol 
lowed.  Slone  kept  to  the  wall  side  of  the  trail,  fearing 
the  horses  might  slip.  The  snow  held  firmly  at  first  and 
Slone  had  no  trouble.  The  gap  in  the  rim-rock  widened 
to  a  slope  thickly  grown  over  with  cedars  and  pinons 
and  manzanita.  This  growth  made  the  descent  more 
laborious,  yet  afforded  means  at  least  for  Slone  to  go  down 
with  less  danger.  There  was  no  stopping.  Once  started, 
the  horses  had  to  keep  on.  Slone  saw  the  impossibility 
of  ever  climbing  out  while  that  snow  was  there.  The 
trail  zigzagged  down  and  down.  Very  soon  the  yellow 
wall  hung  tremendously  over  him,  straight  up.  The  snow 
became  thinner  and  softer.  The  horses  began  to  slip. 
They  slid  on  their  haunches.  Fortunately  the  slope  grew 
less  steep,  and  Slone  could  see  below  where  it  reached  out 
to  comparatively  level  ground.  Still,  a  mishap  might  yet 
occur.  Slone  kept  as  close  to  Nagger  as  possible,  helping 
him  whenever  he  could  do  it.  The  mustang  slipped, 
rolled  over,  and  then  slipped  past  Slone,  went  down 
the  slope  to  bring  up  in  a  cedar.  Slone  worked  down 
to  him  and  extricated  him.  Then  the  huge  Nagger  be 
gan  to  slide.  Snow  and  loose  rock  slid  with  him,  and  so 
did  Slone.  The  little  avalanche  stopped  of  its  own  ac 
cord,  and  then  Slone  dragged  Nagger  on  down  and  down, 
presently  to  come  to  the  end  of  the  steep  descent.  Slone 
looked  up  to  see  that  he  had  made  shortworkof  a  thousand- 
foot  slope.  Here  cedars  and  pinons  grew  thickly  enough 
to  make  a  forest.  The  snow  thinned  out  to  patches,  and 

63 


WILDFIRE 

then  failed.  But  the  going  remained  bad  for  a  while  as 
the  horses  sank  deep  in  a  soft  red  earth.  This  eventually 
grew  more  solid  and  finally  dry.  Slone  worked  out  of  the 
cedars  to  what  appeared  a  grassy  plateau  inclosed  by 
the  great  green-and-white  slope  with  its  yellow  wall  over 
hanging,  and  distant  mesas  and  cliffs.  Here  his  view 
was  restricted.  He  was  down  on  the  first  bench  of  the 
great  canon.  And  there  was  the  deer  trail,  a  well-worn 
path  keeping  to  the  edge  of  the  slope.  Slone  came  to  a 
deep  cut  in  the  earth,  and  the  trail  headed  it,  where  it 
began  at  the  last  descent  of  the  slope.  It  was  the  source 
of  a  canon.  He  could  look  down  to  see  the  bare,  worn 
rock,  and  a  hundred  yards  from  where  he  stood  the  earth 
was  '  washed  from  its  rims  and  it  began  to  show  depth 
and  something  of  that  ragged  outline  which  told  of  vio 
lence  of  flood.  The  trail  headed  many  canons  like  this, 
all  running  down  across  this  bench,  disappearing,  drop 
ping  invisibly.  The  trail  swung  to  the  left  under  the  great 
slope,  and  then  presently  it  climbed  to  a  higher  bench. 
Here  were  brush  and  grass  and  huge  patches  of  sage, 
so  pungent  that  it  stung  Slone's  nostrils.  Then  he  went 
down  again,  this  time  to  come  to  a  clear  brook  lined  by 
willows.  Here  the  horses  drank  long  and  Slone  refreshed 
himself.  The  sun  had  grown  hot.  There  was  fragrance 
of  flowers  he  could  not  see  and  a  low  murmur  of  a  waterfall 
that  was  likewise  invisible.  For  most  of  the  time  his  view 
was  shut  off,  but  occasionally  he  reached  a  point  where 
through  some  break  he  saw  towers  gleaming  red  in  the 
sun.  A  strange  place,  a  place  of  silence,  and  smoky  veils 
in  the  distance.  Time  passed  swiftly.  Toward  the  wan 
ing  of  the  afternoon  he  began  to  climb  to  what  appeared 
to  be  a  saddle  of  land,  connecting  the  canon  wall  on  the 
left  with  a  great  plateau,  gold-rimmed  and  pine-fringed, 
rising  more  and  more  in  his  way  as  he  advanced.  At 
sunset  Slone  was  more  shut  in  than  for  several  hours. 
He  could  tell  the  time  was  sunset  by  the  golden  light  on 
the  cliff  wall  again  overhanging  him.  The  slope  was 

64 


WILDFIRE 

gradual  up  to  this  pass  to  the  saddle,  and  upon  coming 
to  a  spring,  and  the  first  pine-trees,  he  decided  to  halt 
for  camp.  The  mustang  was  almost  exhausted. 

Thereupon  he  hobbled  the  horses  in  the  luxuriant  grass 
round  the  spring,  and  then  unrolled  his  pack.  Once  as 
dusk  came  stealing  down,  while  he  was  eating  his  meal, 
Nagger  whistled  in  fright.  Slone  saw  a  gray,  pantherish 
form  gliding  away  into  the  shadows.  He  took  a  quick 
shot  at  it,  but  missed. 

"It's  a  lion  country,  all  right,"  he  said.  And  then  he 
set  about  building  a  big  fire  on  the  other  side  of  the  grassy 
plot,  so  to  have  the  horses  between  fires.  He  cut  all  the 
venison  into  thin  strips,  and  spent  an  hour  roasting  them. 
Then  he  lay  down  to  rest,  and  he  said:  "Wonder  where 
Wildfire  is  to-night?  Am  I  closer  to  him?  Where's  he 
headin'  for?" 

The  night  was  warm  and  still.  It  was  black  near  the 
huge  cliff,  and  overhead  velvety  blue,  with  stars  of  white 
fire.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  become  more  thought 
ful  and  observing  of  the  aspects  of  his  wild  environment, 
and  he  felt  a  welcome  consciousness  of  loneliness.  Then 
sleep  came  to  him  and  the  night  seemed  short.  In  the 
gray  dawn  he  arose  refreshed. 

The  horses  were  restive.  Nagger  snorted  a  welcome. 
Evidently  they  had  passed  an  uneasy  night.  Slone  found 
lion  tracks  at  the  spring  and  in  sandy  places.  Presently 
he  was  on  his  way  up  to  the  notch  between  the  great  wall 
and  the  plateau.  A  growth  of  thick  scrub-oak  made 
travel  difficult.  It  had  not  appeared  far  up  to  that 
saddle,  but  it  was  far.  There  were  straggling  pine-trees 
and  huge  rocks  that  obstructed  his  gaze.  But  once  up 
he  saw  that  the  saddle  was  only  a  narrow  ridge,  curved 
to  slope  up  on  both  sides. 

Straight  before  Slone  and  under  him  opened  the  canon, 
blazing  and  glorious  along  the  peaks  and  ramparts,  where 
the  rising  sun  struck,  misty  and  smoky  and  shadowy 
down  in  those  mysterious  depths. 


WILDFIRE 

It  took  an  effort  not  to  keep  on  gazing.  But  Slone 
turned  to  the  grim  business  of  his  pursuit.  The  trail  he 
saw  leading  down  had  been  made  by  Indians.  It  was 
used  probably  once  a  year  by  them;  and  also  by  wild 
animals,  and  it  was  exceedingly  steep  and  rough.  Wild 
fire  had  paced  to  and  fro  along  the  narrow  ridge  of  that 
saddle,  making  many  tracks,  before  he  had  headed  down 
again.  Slone  imagined  that  the  great  stallion  had  been 
daunted  by  the  tremendous  chasm,  but  had  finally  faced 
it,  meaning  to  put  this  obstacle  between  him  and  his  pur 
suers.  It  never  occurred  to  Slone  to  attribute  less  in 
telligence  to  Wildfire  than  that.  So,  dismounting,  Slone 
took  Nagger's  bridle  and  started  down.  The  mustang 
with  the  pack  was  reluctant.  He  snorted  and  whistled 
and  pawed  the  earth.  But  he  would  not  be  left  alone,  so 
he  followed. 

The  trail  led  down  under  cedars  that  fringed  a  precipice. 
Slone  was  aware  of  this  without  looking.  He  attended 
only  to  the  trail  and  to  his  horse.  Only  an  Indian  could 
have  picked  out  that  course,  and  it  was  cruel  to  put  a 
horse  to  it.  But  Nagger  was  powerful,  sure-footed,  and 
he  would  go  anywhere  that  Slone  led  him.  Gradually 
Slone  worked  down  and  away  from  the  bulging  rim-wall. 
It  was  hard,  rough  work,  and  risky  because  it  could  not 
be  accomplished  slowly.  Brush  and  rocks,  loose  shale 
and  weathered  slope,  long,  dusty  inclines  of  yellow 
earth,  and  jumbles  of  stone — these  made  bad  going  for 
miles  of  slow,  zigzag  trail  down  out  of  the  cedars.  Then 
the  trail  entered  what  appeared  to  be  a  ravine. 

That  ravine  became  a  canon.  At  its  head  it  was  a  dry 
wash,  full  of  gravel  and  rocks.  It  began  to  cut  deep  into 
the  bowels  of  the  earth.  It  shut  out  sight  of  the  sur 
rounding  walls  and  peaks.  Water  appeared  from  under  a 
cliff  and,  augmented  by  other  springs,  became  a  brook. 
Hot,  dry,  and  barren  at  its  beginning,  this  cleft  became 
cool  and  shady  and  luxuriant  with  grass  and  flowers  and 
amber  moss  with  silver  blossoms.  The  rocks  had  changed 

66 


WILDFIRE 

color  from  yellow  to  deep  red.  Four  hours  of  turning  and 
twisting,  endlessly  down  and  down,  over  boulders  and 
banks  and  every  conceivable  roughness  of  earth  and  rock, 
finished  the  pack-mustang ;  and  Slone  mercifully  left  him 
in  a  long  reach  of  canon  where  grass  and  water  never 
failed.  In  this  place  Slone  halted  for  the  noon  hour, 
letting  Nagger  have  his  fill  of  the  rich  grazing.  Nagger's 
three  days  in  grassy  upland,  despite  the  continuous  travel 
by  day,  had  improved  him.  He  looked  fat,  and  Slone 
had  not  yet  caught  the  horse  resting.  Nagger  was  iron 
to  endure.  Here  Slone  left  all  the  outfit  except  what  was 
on  his  saddle,  and  the  sack  containing  the  few  pounds  of 
meat  and  supplies,  and  the  two  utensils.  This  sack  he 
tied  on  the  back  of  his  saddle,  and  resumed  his  journey. 

Presently  he  came  to  a  place  where  Wildfire  had  doubled 
on  his  trail  and  had  turned  up  a  side  canon.  The  climb  out 
was  hard  on  Slone,  if  not  on  Nagger.  Once  up,  Slone  found 
himself  upon  a  wide,  barren  plateau  of  glaring  red  rock 
and  clumps  of  greasewood  and  cactus.  The  plateau  was 
miles  wide,  shut  in  by  great  walls  and  mesas  of  colored 
rock.  The  afternoon  sun  beat  down  fiercely.  A  blast 
of  wind,  as  if  from  a  furnace,  swept  across  the  plateau, 
and  it  was  laden  with  red  dust.  Slone  walked  here,  where 
he  could  have  ridden.  And  he  made  several  miles  of  up- 
and-down  progress  over  this  rough  plateau.  The  great 
walls  of  the  opposite  side  of  the  canon  loomed  appreciably 
closer.  What,  Slone  wondered,  was  at  the  bottom  of  this 
rent  in  the  earth?  The  great  desert  river  was  down  there, 
of  course,  but  he  knew  nothing  of  it.  Would  that  turn 
back  Wildfire?  Slone  thought  grimly  how  he  had  always 
claimed  Nagger  to  be  part  fish  and  part  bird.  Wildfire 
was  not  going  to  escape. 

By  and  by  only  isolated  mescal  plants  with  long,  yellow- 
plumed  spears  broke  the  bare  monotony  of  the  plateau. 
And  Slone  passed  from  red  sand  and  gravel  to  a  red,  soft 
shale,  and  from  that  to  hard,  red  rock.  Here  Wildfire's 
tracks  were  lost,  the  first  time  in  seven  weeks.  But  Slone 

6  67 


WILDFIRE 

had  his  direction  down  that  plateau  with  the  cleavage 
lines  of  canons  to  right  and  left.  At  times  Slone  found  a 
vestige  of  the  old  Indian  trail,  and  this  made  him  doubly 
sure  of  being  right.  He  did  not  need  to  have  Wildfire's 
tracks.  He  let  Nagger  pick  the  way,  and  the  horse  made 
no  mistake  in  finding  the  line  of  least  resistance.  But 
that  grew  harder  and  harder.  This  bare  rock,  like  a  file, 
would  soon  wear  Wildfire's  hoofs  thin.  And  Slone  re 
joiced.  Perhaps  somewhere  down  in  this  awful  chasm 
he  and  Nagger  would  have  it  out  with  the  stallion.  Slone 
began  to  look  far  ahead,  beginning  to  believe  that  he  might 
see  Wildfire.  Twice  he  had  seen  Wildfire,  but  only  at 
a  distance.  Then  he  had  resembled  a  running  streak  of 
fire,  whence  his  name,  which  Slone  had  given  him. 

This  bare  region  of  rock  began  to  be  cut  up  into  gullies. 
It  was  necessary  to  head  them  or  to  climb  in  and  out. 
Miles  of  travel  really  meant  little  progress  straight  ahead. 
But  Slone  kept  on.  He  was  hot  and  Nagger  was  hot,  and 
that  made  hard  work  easier.  Sometimes  on  the  wind 
came  a  low  thunder.  Was  it  a  storm  or  an  avalanche 
slipping  or  falling  water?  He  could  not  tell.  The  sound 
was  significant  and  haunting. 

Of  one  thing  he  was  sure — that  he  could  not  have  found 
his  back-trail.  But  he  divined  he  was  never  to  retrace 
his  steps  on  this  journey.  The  stretch  of  broken  plateau 
before  him  grew  wilder  and  bolder  of  outline,  darker  in 
color,  weirder  in  aspect,  and  progress  across  it  grew  slower, 
more  dangerous.  There  were  many  places  Nagger  should 
not  have  been  put  to — where  a  slip  meant  a  broken  leg. 
But  Slone  could  not  turn  back.  And  something  besides  an 
indomitable  spirit  kept  him  going.  Again  the  sound  re 
sembling  thunder  assailed  his  ears,  louder  this  time. 
The  plateau  appeared  to  be  ending  in  a  series  of  great 
capes  or  promontories.  Slone  feared  he  would  soon 
come  out  upon  a  promontory  from  which  he  might  see 
the  impossibility  of  further  travel.  He  felt  relieved  down 
in  the  gullies,  where  he  could  not  see  far.  He  climbed 

68 


WILDFIRE 

out  of  one,  presently,  from  which  there  extended  a  narrow 
ledge  with  a  slant  too  perilous  for  any  horse.  He  stepped 
out  upon  that  with  far  less  confidence  than  Nagger.  To 
the  right  was  a  bulge  of  low  wall,  and  a  few  feet  to  the 
left  a  dark  precipice.  The  trail  here  was  faintly  outlined, 
and  it  was  six  inches  wide  and  slanting  as  well.  It  seemed 
endless  to  Slone,  that  ledge.  He  looked  only  down  at 
his  feet  and  listened  to  Nagger's  steps.  The  big  horse 
trod  carefully,  but  naturally,  and  he  did  not  slip.  That 
ledge  extended  in  a  long  curve,  turning  slowly  away  from 
the  precipice,  and  ascending  a  little  at  the  further  end. 
Slone  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief  when  he  led  Nagger 
up  on  level  rock. 

Suddenly  a  strange  yet  familiar  sound  halted  Slone,  as 
if  he  had  been  struck.  The  wild,  shrill,  high-pitched, 
piercing  whistle  of  a  stallion !  Nagger  neighed  a  blast  in 
reply  and  pounded  the  rock  with  his  iron-shod  hoofs. 
With  a  thrill  Slone  looked  ahead. 

There,  some  few  hundred  yards  distant,  on  a  promon 
tory,  stood  a  red  horse. 

"My  Lord!  .  .  .  It's  Wildfire!"  breathed  Slone,  tensely. 

He  could  not  believe  his  sight.  He  imagined  he  was 
dreaming.  But  as  Nagger  stamped  and  snorted  defiance 
Slone  looked  with  fixed  and  keen  gaze,  and  knew  that 
beautiful  picture  was  no  lie. 

Wildfire  was  as  red  as  fire.  His  long  mane,  wild  in  the 
wind,  was  like  a  whipping,  black-streaked  flame.  Sil 
houetted  there  against  that  canon  background  he  seemed 
gigantic,  a  demon  horse,  ready  to  plunge  into  fiery  depths. 
He  was  looking  back  over  his  shoulder,  his  head  very 
high,  and  every  line  of  him  was  instinct  with  wildness. 
Again  he  sent  out  that  shrill,  air-splitting  whistle.  Slone 
understood  it  to  be  a  clarion  call  to  Nagger.  If  Nagger 
had  been  alone  Wildfire  would  have  killed  him.  The  red 
stallion  was  a  killer  of  horses.  All  over  the  Utah  ranges 
he  had  left  the  trail  of  a  murderer.  Nagger  understood 
this,  too,  for  he  whistled  back  in  rage  and  terror.  It  took 


WILDFIRE 

an  iron  arm  to  hold  him.  Then  Wildfire  plunged,  appar 
ently  down,  and  vanished  from  Slone's  sight. 

Slone  hurried  onward,  to  be  blocked  by  a  huge  crack 
in  the  rocky  plateau.  This  he  had  to  head.  And  then 
another  and  like  obstacle  checked  his  haste  to  reach  that 
promontory.  He  was  forced  to  go  more  slowly.  Wild 
fire  had  been  close  only  as  to  sight.  And  this  was  the 
great  canon  that  dwarfed  distance  and  magnified  prox 
imity.  Climbing  down  and  up,  toiling  on,  he  at  last 
learned  patience.  He  had  seen  Wildfire  at  close  range. 
That  was  enough.  So  he  plodded  on,  once  more  return 
ing  to  careful  regard  of  Nagger.  It  took  an  hour  of  work 
to  reach  the  point  where  Wildfire  had  disappeared. 

A  promontory  indeed  it  was,  overhanging  a  valley  a 
thousand  feet  below.  A  white  torrent  of  a  stream  wound 
through  it.  There  were  lines  of  green  cottonwoods  fol 
lowing  the  winding  course.  Then  Slone  saw  Wildfire 
slowly  crossing  the  flat  toward  the  stream.  He  had  gone 
down  that  cliff,  which  to  Slone  looked  perpendicular. 

Wildfire  appeared  to  be  walking  lame.  Slone,  making 
sure  of  this,  suffered  a  pang.  Then,  when  the  significance 
of  such  lameness  dawned  upon  him  he  whooped  his  wild 
joy  and  waved  his  hat.  The  red  stallion  must  have  heard, 
for  he  looked  up.  Then  he  went  on  again  and  waded 
into  the  stream,  where  he  drank  long.  When  he  started 
to  cross,  the  swift  current  drove  him  back  in  several  places. 
The  water  wreathed  white  around  him.  But  evidently 
it  was  not  deep,  and  finally  he  crossed.  From  the  other 
side  he  looked  up  again  at  Nagger  and  Slone,  and,  going  on, 
he  soon  was  out  of  sight  in  the  cottonwoods. 

"How  to  get  down!"  muttered  Slone. 

There  was  a  break  in  the  cliff  wall,  a  bare  stone  slant 
where  horses  had  gone  down  and  come  up.  That  was 
enough  for  Slone  to  know.  He  would  have  attempted 
the  descent  if  he  were  sure  no  other  horse  but  Wildfire 
had  ever  gone  down  there.  But  Slone's  hair  began  to 
rise  stiff  on  his  head.  A  horse  like  Wildfire,  and  mountain- 

70 


WILDFIRE 

sheep  and  Indian  ponies,  were  all  very  different  from  Nag 
ger.  The  chances  were  against  Nagger. 

"Come  on,  old  boy.  If  I  can  do  it,  you  can,"  he 
said. 

Slone  had  never  seen  a  trail  as  perilous  as  this.  He 
was  afraid  for  his  horse.  A  slip  there  meant  death. 
The  way  Nagger  trembled  in  every  muscle  showed  his 
feelings.  But  he  never  flinched.  He  would  follow  Slone 
anywhere,  providing  Slone  rode  him  or  led  him.  And 
here,  as  riding  was  impossible,  Slone  went  before.  If  the 
horse  slipped  there  would  be  a  double  tragedy,  for  Nagger 
would  knock  his  master  off  the  cliff.  Slone  set  his  teeth 
and  stepped  down.  He  did  not  let  Nagger  see  his  fear. 
He  was  taking  the  greatest  risk  he  had  ever  run. 

The  break  in  the  wall  led  to  a  ledge,  and  the  ledge 
dropped  from  step  to  step,  and  these  had  bare,  slippery 
slants  between.  Nagger  was  splendid  on  a  bad  trail. 
He  had  methods  peculiar  to  his  huge  build  and  great 
weight.  He  crashed  down  over  the  stone  steps,  both 
front  hoofs  at  once.  The  slants  he  slid  down  on  his 
haunches  with  his  forelegs  stiff  and  the  iron  shoes  scraping. 
He  snorted  and  heaved  and  grew  wet  with  sweat.  He 
tossed  his  head  at  some  of  the  places.  But  he  never  hesi 
tated  and  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  go  slowly.  When 
ever  Slone  came  to  corrugated  stretches  in  the  trail  he 
felt  grateful.  But  these  were  few.  Tke  rock  was  like 
smooth  red  iron.  Slone  kad  never  seen  such  hard  rock. 
It  took  him  long  to  realize  that  it  was  marWe.  His  heart 
seemed  a  tense,  painful  knot  in  his  breast,  as  if  it  could 
not  beat,  holding  back  in  the  strained  suspense.  But 
Nagger  never  jerked  on  the  bridle.  He  never  faltered. 
Many  times  he  slipped,  often  with  both  front  feet,  but 
never  with  all  four  feet.  So  he  did  not  fall.  And  the 
red  wall  began  to  loom  above  Slone.  Then  suddenly  he 
seemed  brought  to  a  point  where  it  was  impossible  to 
descend.  It  was  a  round  bulge,  slanting  fearfully,  with 
only  a  few  little  rough  surfaces  to  hold  a  foot.  Wildfire  had 


WILDFIRE 

left  a  broad,  clear-swept  mark  at  that  place,  and  red  hairs 
on  some  of  the  sharp  points.  He  had  slid  down.  Below 
was  an  offset  that  fortunately  prevented  further  sliding. 
Slone  started  to  walk  down  this  place,  but  when  Nagger 
began  to  slide  Slone  had  to  let  go  the  bridle  and  jump. 
Both  he  and  the  horse  landed  safely.  Luck  was  with 
them.  And  they  went  on,  down  and  down,  to  reach  the 
base  of  the  great  wall,  scraped  and  exhausted,  wet  with 
sweat,  but  unhurt.  As  Slone  gazed  upward  he  felt  the 
impossibility  of  believing  what  he  knew  to  be  true.  He 
hugged  and  petted  the  horse.  Then  he  led  on  to  the 
roaring  stream. 

It  was  green  water  white  with  foam.  Slone  waded  in 
and  found  the  water  cool  and  shallow  and  very  swift. 
He  had  to  hold  to  Nagger  to  keep  from  being  swept  down 
stream.  They  crossed  in  safety.  There  in  the  sand 
showed  Wildfire's  tracks.  And  here  were  signs  of  another 
Indian  camp,  half  a  year  old. 

The  shade  of  the  cottonwoods  was  pleasant.  Slone 
found  this  valley  oppressively  hot.  There  was  no  wind 
and  the  sand  blistered  his  feet  through  his  boots.  Wild 
fire  held  to  the  Indian  trail  that  had  guided  him  down 
into  this  wilderness  of  worn  rock.  And  that  trail  crossed 
the  stream  at  every  turn  of  the  twisting,  narrow  valley. 
Slone  enjoyed  getting  into  the  water.  He  hung  his  gun 
over  the  pommel  and  let  the  water  roll  him.  A  dozen 
times  he  and  Nagger  forded  the  rushing  torrent.  Then 
they  came  to  a  box-like  closing  of  the  valley  to  canon 
walls,  and  here  the  trail  evidently  followed  the  stream 
bed.  There  was  no  other  way.  Slone  waded  in,  and 
stumbled,  rolled,  and  floated  ahead  of  the  sturdy  horse. 
Nagger  was  wet  to  his  breast,  but  he  did  not  fall.  This 
gulch  seemed  full  of  a  hollow  rushing  roar.  It  opened  out 
into  a  wide  valley.  And  Wildfire's  tracks  took  to  the  left 
side  and  began  to  climb  the  slope. 

Here  the  traveling  was  good,  considering  what  had  been 
passed.  Once  up  out  of  the  valley  floor  Slone  saw  Wild- 

72 


WILDFIRE 

fire  far  ahead,  high  on  the  slope.  He  did  not  appear  to 
be  limping,  but  he  was  not  going  fast.  Slone  watched  as 
he  climbed.  What  and  where  would  be  the  end  of  this 
chase? 

Sometimes  Wildfire  was  plain  in  his  sight  for  a  mo 
ment,  but  usually  he  was  hidden  by  rocks.  The  slope 
was  one  great  talus,  a  jumble  of  weathered  rock,  fallen 
from  what  appeared  a  mountain  of  red  and  yellow  wall. 
Here  the  heat  of  the  sun  fell  upon  him  like  fire.  The 
rocks  were  so  hot  Slone  could  not  touch  them  with  bare 
hand.  The  close  of  the  afternoon  was  approaching,  and 
this  slope  was  interminably  long.  Still,  it  was  not  steep, 
and  the  trail  was  good. 

At  last  from  the  height  of  slope  Wildfire  appeared, 
looking  back  and  down.  Then  he  was  gone.  Slone 
plodded  upward.  Long  before  he  reached  that  summit 
he  heard  the  dull  rumble  of  the  river.  It  grew  to  be  a 
roar,  yet  it  seemed  distant.  Would  the  great  desert  river 
stop  Wildfire  in  his  flight?  Slone  doubted  it.  He  sur 
mounted  the  ridge,  to  find  the  canon  opening  in  a  tre 
mendous  gap,  and  to  see  down,  far  down,  a  glittering, 
sun-blasted  slope  merging  into  a  deep,  black  gulch  where 
a  red  river  swept  and  chafed  and  roared. 

Somehow  the  river  was  what  he  had  expected  to  see. 
A  force  that  had  cut  and  ground  this  canon  could  have 
been  nothing  but  a  river  like  that.  The  trail  led  down, 
and  Slone  had  no  doubt  that  it  crossed  the  river  and  led 
up  out  of  the  canon.  He  wanted  to  stay  there  and  gaze 
endlessly  and  listen.  At  length  he  began  the  descent. 
As  he  proceeded  it  seemed  that  the  roar  of  the  river 
lessened.  He  could  not  understand  why  this  was  so.  It 
took  half  an  hour  to  reach  the  last  level,  a  ghastly,  black, 
and  iron-ribbed  canon  bed,  with  the  river  splitting  it. 
He  had  not  had  a  glimpse  of  Wildfire  on  this  side  of  the 
divide,  but  he  found  his  tracks,  and  they  led  down  off 
the  last  level,  through  a  notch  in  the  black  bank  of 
marble  to  a  sand-bar  and  the  river. 

73 


WILDFIRE 

Wildfire  had  walked  straight  off  the  sand  into  the  water. 
Slone  studied  the  river  and  shore.  The  water  ran  slow, 
heavily,  in  sluggish  eddies.  From  far  up  the  canon  came 
the  roar  of  a  rapid,  and  from  below  the  roar  of  another, 
heavier  and  closer.  The  river  appeared  tremendous,  in 
ways  Slone  felt  rather  than  realized,  yet  it  was  not  swift. 
Studying  the  black,  rough  wall  of  rock  above  him,  he 
saw  marks  where  the  river  had  been  sixty  feet  higher  than 
where  he  stood  on  the  sand.  It  was  low,  then.  How 
lucky  for  him  that  he  had  gotten  there  before  flood  season! 
He  believed  Wildfire  had  crossed  easily,  and  he  knew 
Nagger  could  make  it.  Then  he  piled  and  tied  his  sup 
plies  and  weapons  high  on  the  saddle,  to  keep  them  dry, 
and  looked  for  a  place  to  take  to  the  water. 

Wildfire  had  sunk  deep  before  reaching  the  edge. 
Manifestly  he  had  lunged  the  last  few  feet.  Slone  found 
a  better  place,  and  waded  in,  urging  Nagger.  The  big 
horse  plunged,  almost  going  under,  and  began  to  swim. 
Slone  kept  up-stream  beside  him.  He  found,  presently, 
that  the  water  was  thick  and  made  him  tired,  so  it  was 
necessary  to  grasp  a  stirrup  and  be  towed.  The  river 
appeared  only  a  few  hundred  feet  wide,  but  probably  it 
was  wider  than  it  looked.  Nagger  labored  heavily  near 
the  opposite  shore;  still,  he  landed  safely  upon  a  rocky 
bank.  There  were  patches  of  sand  in  which  Wildfire's 
tracks  showed  so  fresh  that  the  water  had  not  yet  dried 
out  of  them. 

Slone  rested  his  horse  before  attempting  to  climb  out 
of  that  split  in  the  rock.  However,  Wildfire  had  found  an 
easy  ascent.  On  this  side  of  the  canon  the  bare  rock 
did  not  predominate.  A  clear  trail  led  up  a  dusty, 
gravelly  slope,  upon  which  scant  greasewood  and  cactus 
appeared.  Half  an  hour's  climbing  brought  Slone  to 
where  he  could  see  that  he  was  entering  a  vast  valley, 
sloping  up  and  narrowing  to  a  notch  in  the  dark  cliffs, 
above  which  towered  the  great  red  wall  and  about  that 
the  slopes  of  cedar  and  the  yellow  rim-rock. 

74 


WILDFIRE 

And  scarcely  a  mile  distant,  bright  in  the  westering 
sunlight,  shone  the  red  stallion,  moving  slowly. 

Slone  pressed  on  steadily.  Just  before  dark  he  came 
to  an  ideal  spot  to  camp.  The  valley  had  closed  up,  so 
that  the  lofty  walls  cast  shadows  that  met.  A  clump  of 
cottonwoods  surrounding  a  spring,  abundance  of  rich 
grass,  willows  and  flowers  lining  the  banks,  formed  an 
oasis  in  the  bare  valley.  Slone  was  tired  out  from  the  day 
of  ceaseless  toil  down  and  up,  and  he  could  scarcely  keep 
his  eyes  open.  But  he  tried  to  stay  awake.  The  dead 
silence  of  the  valley,  the  dry  fragrance,  the  dreaming 
walls,  the  advent  of  night  low  down,  when  up  on  the  ram 
parts  the  last  red  rays  of  the  sun  lingered,  the  strange 
loneliness — these  were  sweet  and  comforting  to  him. 

And  that  night's  sleep  was  as  a  moment.  He  opened 
his  eyes  to  see  the  crags  and  towers  and  peaks  and  domes, 
and  the  lofty  walls  of  that  vast,  broken  chaos  of  canons 
across  the  river.  They  were  now  emerging  from  the 
misty  gray  of  dawn,  growing  pink  and  lilac  and  purple 
under  the  rising  sun. 

He  arose  and  set  about  his  few  tasks,  which,  being  soon 
finished,  allowed  him  an  early  start. 

Wildfire  had  grazed  along  no  more  than  a  mile  in  the 
lead.  Slone  looked  eagerly  up  the  narrowing  canon,  but 
he  was  not  rewarded  by  a  sight  of  the  stallion.  As  he 
progressed  up  a  gradually  ascending  trail  he  became 
aware  of  the  fact  that  the  notch  he  had  long  looked  up 
to  was  where  the  great  red  walls  closed  in  and  almost 
met.  And  the  trail  zigzagged  up  this  narrow  vent,  so 
steep  that  only  a  few  steps  could  be  taken  without  rest. 
Slone  toiled  up  for  an  hour — an  age — till  he  was  wet,  burn 
ing,  choked,  with  a  great  weight  on  his  chest.  Yet  still 
he  was  only  half-way  up  that  awful  break  between  the 
walls.  Sometimes  he  could  have  tossed  a  stone  down 
upon  a  part  of  the  trail,  only  a  few  rods  below,  yet  many, 
many  weary  steps  of  actual  toil.  As  he  got  farther  up 
the  notch  widened.  What  had  been  scarcely  visible  from 

75 


WILDFIRE 

the  valley  below  was  now  colossal  in  actual  dimensions. 
The  trail  was  like  a  twisted  mile  of  thread  between  two 
bulging  mountain  walls  leaning  their  ledges  and  fronts 
over  this  tilted  pass. 

Slone  rested  often.  Nagger  appreciated  this  and  heaved 
gratefully  at  every  halt.  In  this  monotonous  toil  Slone 
forgot  the  zest  of  his  pursuit.  And  when  Nagger  sud 
denly  snorted  in  fright  Slone  was  not  prepared  for  what 
he  saw. 

Above  him  ran  a  low,  red  wall,  around  which  evidently 
the  trail  led.  At  the  curve,  which  was  a  promontory, 
scarcely  a  hundred  feet  in  an  airline  above  him,  he  saw 
something  red  moving,  bobbing,  coming  out  into  view. 
It  was  a  horse. 

Wildfire — no  farther  away  than  the  length  of  three 
lassoes! 

There  he  stood  looking  down.  He  fulfilled  all  of  Slone's 
dreams.  Only  he  was  bigger.  But  he  was  so  magnifi 
cently  proportioned  that  he  did  not  seem  heavy.  His 
coat  was  shaggy  and  red.  It  was  not  glossy.  The  color 
was  what  made  him  shine.  His  mane  was  like  a  crest, 
mounting,  then  falling  low.  Slone  had  never  seen  so 
much  muscle  on  a  horse.  Yet  his  outline  was  graceful, 
beautiful.  The  head  was  indeed  that  of  the  wildest  of 
all  wild  creatures — a  stallion  born  wild — and  it  was  beau 
tiful,  savage,  splendid,  everything  but  noble.  Whatever 
Wildfire  was,  he  was  a  devil,  a  murderer — he  had  no  noble 
attributes.  Slone  thought  that  if  a  horse  could  express 
hate,  surely  Wildfire  did  then.  It  was  certain  that  he 
did  express  curiosity  and  fury. 

Slone  shook  a  gantleted  fist  at  the  stallion,  as  if  the 
horse  were  human.  That  was  a  natural  action  for  a  rider 
of  his  kind.  Wildfire  turned  away,  showed  bright  against 
the  dark  background,  and  then  disappeared. 


CHAPTER  VI 

T^HAT  was  the  last  Slone  saw  of  Wildfire  for  three 
1   days. 

It  took  all  of  this  day  to  climb  out  of  the  canon.  The 
second  was  a  slow  march  of  thirty  miles  into  a  scrub  cedar 
and  pifion  forest,  through  which  the  great  red  and  yellow 
walls  of  the  canon  could  be  seen.  That  night  Slone  found 
a  water-hole  in  a  rocky  pocket  and  a  little  grass  for 
Nagger.  The  third  day's  travel  consisted  of  forty  miles 
or  more  through  level  pine  forest,  dry  and  odorous,  but 
lacking  the  freshness  and  beauty  of  the  forest  on  the 
north  side  of  the  canon.  On  this  south  side  a  strange 
feature  was  that  all  the  water,  when  there  was  any,  ran 
away  from  the  rim.  Slone  camped  this  night  at  a  muddy 
pond  in  the  woods,  where  Wildfire's  tracks  showed  plainly. 

On  the  following  day  Slone  rode  out  of  the  forest  into 
a  country  of  scanty  cedars,  bleached  and  stunted,  and 
out  of  this  to  the  edge  of  a  plateau,  from  which  the  shim 
mering  desert  flung  its  vast  and  desolate  distances,  for 
bidding  and  menacing.  This  was  not  the  desert  upland 
country  of  Utah,  but  a  naked  and  bony  world  of  colored 
rock  and  sand — a  painted  desert  of  heat  and  wind  and 
flying  sand  and  waterless  wastes  and  barren  ranges. 
But  it  did  not  daunt  Slone.  For  far  down  on  the  bare, 
billowing  ridges  moved  a  red  speck,  at  a  snail's  pace,  a 
slowly  moving  dot  of  color  which  was  Wildfire. 

On  open  ground  like  this,  Nagger,  carrying  two  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds,  showed  his  wonderful  quality.  He  did 
not  mind  the  heat  nor  the  sand  nor  the  glare  nor  the  dis- 

77 


WILDFIRE 

tance  nor  his  burden.  He  did  not  tire.  He  was  an  en 
gine  of  tremendous  power. 

Slone  gained  upon  Wildfire,  and  toward  evening  of  that 
day  he  reached  to  within  half  a  mile  of  the  stallion.  And 
he  chose  to  keep  that  far  behind.  That  night  he  camped 
where  there  was  dry  grass,  but  no  water. 

Next  day  he  followed  Wildfire  down  and  down,  over  the 
endless  swell  of  rolling  red  ridges,  bare  of  all  but  bleached 
white  grass  and  meager  greasewood,  always  descending 
in  the  face  of  that  painted  desert  of  bold  and  ragged  steps. 
Slone  made  fifty  miles  that  day,  and  gained  the  valley 
bed,  where  a  slender  stream  ran  thin  and  spread  over  a 
wide  sandy  bottom.  It  was  salty  water,  but  it  was  wel 
come  to  both  man  and  beast. 

The  following  day  he  crossed,  and  the  tracks  of  Wild 
fire  were  still  wet  on  the  sand-bars.  The  stallion  was 
slowing  down.  Slone  saw  him,  limping  along,  not  far 
in  advance.  There  was  a  ten-mile  stretch  of  level  ground, 
blown  hard  as  rock,  from  which  the  sustenance  had  been 
bleached,  for  not  a  spear  of  grass  grew  there.  And  fol 
lowing  that  was  a  tortuous  passage  through  a  weird 
region  of  clay  dunes,  blue  and  violet  and  heliotrope  and 
lavender,  all  worn  smooth  by  rain  and  wind.  Wildfire 
favored  the  soft  ground  now.  He  had  deviated  from  his 
straight  course.  And  he  was  partial  to  washes  and  dips 
in  the  earth  where  water  might  have  lodged.  And  he  was 
not  now  scornful  of  a  green-scummed  water-hole  with 
its  white  margin  of  alkali.  That  night  Slone  made  camp 
with  Wildfire  in  plain  sight.  The  stallion  stopped  when 
his  pursuers  stopped.  And  he  began  to  graze  on  the  same 
stretch  with  Nagger.  How  strange  this  seemed  to  Slone ! 

Here  at  this  camp  was  evidence  of  Indians.  Wildfire 
had  swung  round  to  the  north  in  his  course.  Like  any 
pursued  wild  animal,  he  had  begun  to  circle.  And  he  had 
pointed  his  nose  toward  the  Utah  he  had  left. 

Next  morning  Wildfire  was  not  in  sight,  but  he  had  left 
his  tracks  in  the  sand.  Slone  trailed  him  with  Nagger 

78 


WILDFIRE 

at  a  trot.  Toward  the  head  of  this  sandy  flat  Slone  came 
upon  old  corn-fields,  and  a  broken  dam  where  the  water 
had  been  stored,  and  well-defined  trails  leading  away  to 
the  right.  Somewhere  over  there  in  the  desert  lived  Ind 
ians.  At  this  point  Wildfire  abandoned  the  trail  he  had 
followed  for  many  days  and  cut  out  more  to  the  north.  It 
took  all  the  morning  hours  to  climb  three  great  steps  and 
benches  that  led  up  to  the  summit  of  a  mesa,  vast  in  ex 
tent.  It  turned  out  to  be  a  sandy  waste.  The  wind  rose 
and  everywhere  were  moving  sheets  of  sand,  and  in  the 
distance  circular  yellow  dust-devils,  rising  high  like  water 
spouts,  and  back  down  in  the  sun-scorched  valley  a  sand 
storm  moved  along  majestically,  burying  the  desert  in  its 
yellow  pall. 

Then  two  more  days  of  sand  and  another  day  of  a  slowly 
rising  ground  growing  from  bare  to  gray  and  gray  to  green, 
and  then  to  the  purple  of  sage  and  cedar — these  three 
grinding  days  were  toiled  out  with  only  one  water-hole. 

And  Wildfire  was  lame  and  in  distress  and  Nagger 
was  growing  gaunt  and  showing  strain;  and  Slone,  hag 
gard  and  black  and  worn,  plodded  miles  and  miles  on  foot 
to  save  his  horse. 

Slone  felt  that  it  would  be  futile  to  put  the  chase  to  a 
test  of  speed.  Nagger  could  never  head  that  stallion. 
Slone  meant  to  go  on  and  on,  always  pushing  Wildfire, 
keeping  him  tired,  wearied,  and  worrying  him,  till  a  sec 
tion  of  the  country  was  reached  where  he  could  drive  Wild 
fire  into  some  kind  of  a  natural  trap.  The  pursuit  seemed 
endless.  Wildfire  kept  to  open  country  where  he  could 
not  be  surprised. 

There  came  a  morning  when  Slone  climbed  to  a  cedared 
plateau  that  rose  for  a  whole  day's  travel,  and  then  split 
into  a  labyrinthine  maze  of  canons.  There  were  trees, 
grass,  water.  It  was  a  high  country,  cool  and  wild, 
like  the  uplands  he  had  left.  For  days  he  camped  on 
Wildfire's  trail,  always  relentlessly  driving  him,  always 
watching  for  the  trap  he  hoped  to  find.  And  the  red 

79 


WILDFIRE 

stallion  spent  much  of  this  time  of  flight  in  looking  back 
ward.  Whenever  Slone  came  in  sight  of  him  he  had  his 
head  over  his  shoulder,  watching.  And  on  the  soft  ground 
of  these  canons  he  had  begun  to  recover  from  his  lame 
ness.  But  this  did  not  worry  Slone.  Sooner  or  later 
Wildfire  would  go  down  into  a  high-walled  wash,  from 
which  there  would  be  no  outlet ;  or  he  would  wander  into 
a  box-canon;  or  he  would  climb  out  on  a  mesa  with  no 
place  to  descend,  unless  he  passed  Slone;  or  he  would 
get  cornered  on  a  soft,  steep  slope  where  his  hoofs  would 
sink  deep  and  make  him  slow.  The  nature  of  the  desert 
had  changed.  Slone  had  entered  a  wonderful  region,  the 
like  of  which  he  had  not  seen — a  high  plateau  criss 
crossed  in  every  direction  by  narrow  canons  with  red  walls 
a  thousand  feet  high. 

And  one  of  the  strange  turning  canons  opened  into  a  vast 
valley  of  monuments. 

The  plateau  had  weathered  and  washed  away,  leaving 
huge  sections  of  stone  walls,  all  standing  isolated,  different 
in  size  and  shape,  but  all  clean-cut,  bold,  with  straight  lines. 
They  stood  up  everywhere,  monumental,  towering,  many- 
colored,  lending  a  singular  and  beautiful  aspect  to  the  great 
green-and-gray  valley,  billowing  away  to  the  north,  where 
dim,  broken  battlements  mounted  to  the  clouds.  4 

The  only  living  thing  in  Slone's  sight  was  Wildfire. 
He  shone  red  down  on  the  green  slope. 

Slone's  heart  swelled.  This  was  the  setting  for  that 
grand  horse — a  perfect  wild  range.  But  also  it  seemed 
the  last  place  where  there  might  be  any  chance  to  trap 
the  stallion.  Still  that  did  not  alter  Slone's  purpose, 
though  it  lost  to  him  the  joy  of  former  hopes.  He  rode 
down  the  slope,  out  upon  the  billowing  floor  of  the  valley. 
Wildfire  looked  back  to  see  his  pursuers,  and  then  the 
solemn  stillness  broke  to  a  wild,  piercing  whistle. 

Day  after  day,  camping  where  night  found  him,  Slone 
followed  the  stallion,  never  losing  sight  of  him  till  dark- 

80 


WILDFIRE 

ness  had  fallen.  The  valley  was  immense  and  the  monu 
ments  miles  apart.  But  they  always  seemed  close  together 
and  near  him.  The  air  magnified  everything.  Slone  lost 
track  of  time.  The  strange,  solemn,  lonely  days  and  the 
silent,  lonely  nights,  and  the  endless  pursuit,  and  the  wild, 
weird  valley — these  completed  the  work  of  years  on  Slone 
and  he  became  satisfied,  unthinking,  almost  savage. 

The  toil  and  privation  had  worn  him  down  and  he 
was  like  iron.  His  garments  hung  in  tatters;  his  boots 
were  ripped  and  soleless.  Long  since  his  flour  had  been 
used  up,  and  all  his  supplies  except  the  salt.  He  lived 
on  the  meat  of  rabbits,  but  they  were  scarce,  and  the 
time  came  when  there  were  none.  Some  days  he  did 
not  eat.  Hunger  did  not  make  him  suffer.  He  killed 
a  desert  bird  now  and  then,  and  once  a  wildcat  crossing 
the  valley.  Eventually  he  felt  his  strength  diminishing, 
and  then  he  took  to  digging  out  the  pack-rats  and  cook 
ing  them.  But  these,  too,  were  scarce.  At  length  star 
vation  faced  Slone.  But  he  knew  he  would  not  starve. 
Many  times  he  had  been  within  rifle-shot  of  Wildfire. 
And  the  grim,  forbidding  thought  grew  upon  him  that 
he  must  kill  the  stallion.  The  thought  seemed  involun 
tary,  but  his  mind  rejected  it.  Nevertheless,  he  knew 
that  if  he  could  not  catch  the  stallion  he  would  kill  him. 
That  had  been  the  end  of  many  a  desperate  rider's  pur 
suit  of  a  coveted  horse. 

While  Slone  kept  on  his  merciless  pursuit,  never  letting 
Wildfire  rest  by  day,  time  went  on  just  as  relentlessly. 
Spring  gave  way  to  early  summer.  The  hot  sun  bleached 
the  grass ;  water-holes  failed  out  in  the  valley,  and  water 
could  be  found  only  in  the  canons ;  and  the  dry  winds  be 
gan  to  blow  the  sand.  It  was  a  sandy  valley,  green  and 
gray  only  at  a  distance,  and  out  toward  the  north  there 
were  no  monuments,  and  the  slow  heave  of  sand  lifted 
toward  the  dim  walls. 

Wildfire  worked  away  from  this  open  valley,  back  to 
the  south  end,  where  the  great  monuments  loomed,  and 

81 


WILDFIRE 

still  farther  back,  where  they  grew  closer,  till  at  length 
some  of  them  were  joined  by  weathered  ridges  to  the 
walls  of  the  surrounding  plateau.  For  all  that  Slone 
could  see,  Wildfire  was  in  perfect  condition.  But  Nagger 
was  not  the  horse  he  had  been.  Slone  realized  that  in 
one  way  or  another  the  pursuit  was  narrowing  down  to 
the  end. 

He  found  a  water-hole  at  the  head  of  a  wash  in  a  split 
in  the  walls,  and  here  he  let  Nagger  rest  and  graze  one 
whole  day — the  first  day  for  a  long  time  that  he  had  not 
kept  the  red  stallion  in  sight.  That  day  was  marked  by 
the  good  fortune  of  killing  a  rabbit,  and  while  eating  it  his 
gloomy,  fixed  mind  admitted  that  he  was  starving.  He 
dreaded  the  next  sunrise.  But  he  could  not  hold  it  back. 
There,  behind  the  dark  monuments,  standing  sentinel- 
like,  the  sky  lightened  and  reddened  and  burst  into  gold 
and  pink,  till  out  of  the  golden  glare  the  sun  rose  glorious. 
And  Slone,  facing  the  league-long  shadows  of  the  monu 
ments,  rode  out  again  into  the  silent,  solemn  day,  on  his 
hopeless  quest. 

For  a  change  Wildfire  had  climbed  high  up  a  slope  of 
talus,  through  a  narrow  pass,  rounded  over  with  drifting 
sand.  And  Slone  gazed  down  into  a  huge  amphitheater 
full  of  monuments,  like  all  that  strange  country.  A 
basin  three  miles  across  lay  beneath  him.  Walls  and 
weathered  slants  of  rock  and  steep  slopes  of  reddish- 
yellow  sand  inclosed  this  oval  depression.  The  floor  was 
white,  and  it  seemed  to  move  gently  or  radiate  with  heat 
waves.  Studying  it,  Slone  made  out  that  the  motion 
was  caused  by  wind  in  long  bleached  grass.  He  had 
crossed  small  areas  of  this  grass  in  different  parts  of 
the  region. 

Wildfire's  tracks  led  down  into  this  basin,  and  presently 
Slone,  by  straining  his  eyes,  made  out  the  red  spot  that 
was  the  stallion. 

"He's  lookin'  to  quit  the  country,"  soliloquized  Slone, 
as  he  surveyed  the  scene. 

82 


WILDFIRE 

With  keen,  slow  gaze  Slone  studied  the  lay  of  wall 
and  slope,  and  when  he  had  circled  the  huge  depression 
he  made  sure  that  Wildfire  could  not  get  out  except  by 
the  narrow  pass  through  which  he  had  gone  in.  Slone 
sat  astride  Nagger  in  the  mouth  of  this  pass — a  wash 
a  few  yards  wide,  walled  by  broken,  rough  rock  on  one 
side  and  an  insurmountable  slope  on  the  other. 

"If  this  hole  was  only  little,  now,"  sighed  Slone,  as  he 
gazed  at  the  sweeping,  shimmering  oval  floor,  "I  might 
have  a  chance.  But  down  there — we  couldn't  get  near 
him." 

There  was  no  water  in  that  dry  bowl.  Slone  reflected 
on  the  uselessness  of  keeping  Wilolfire  down  there,  because 
Nagger  could  not  go  without  water  as  long  as  Wildfire. 
For  the  first  time  Slone  hesitated.  It  seemed  merciless 
to  Nagger  to  drive  him  down  into  this  hot,  windy  hole. 
The  wind  blew  from  the  west,  and  it  swooped  up  the 
slope,  hot,  with  the  odor  of  dry,  dead  grass. 

But  that  hot  wind  stirred  Slone  with  an  idea,  and  sud 
denly  he  was  tense,  excited,  glowing,  yet  grim  and  hard. 

"Wildfire,  I'll  make  you  run  with  your  namesake  in 
that  high  grass,"  called  Slone.  The  speech  was  full  of 
bitter  failure,  of  regret,  of  the  hardness  of  a  rider  who 
could  not  give  up  the  horse  to  freedom. 

Slone  meant  to  ride  down  there  and  fire  the  long  grass. 
In  that  wind  there  would  indeed  be  wildfire  to  race  with 
the  red  stallion.  It  would  perhaps  mean  his  death;  at 
least  it  would  chase  him  out  of  that  hole,  where  to  follow 
him  would  be  useless. 

"I'd  make  you  hump  now  to  get  away  if  I  could  get 
behind  you,"  muttered  Slone.  He  saw  that  if  he  could 
fire  the  grass  on  the  other  side  the  wind  of  flame  would 
drive  Wildfire  straight  toward  him.  The  slopes  and 
walls  narrowed  up  to  the  pass,  but  high  grass  grew  to 
within  a  few  rods  of  where  Slone  stood.  But  it  seemed 
impossible  to  get  behind  Wildfire. 

"At  night — then — I  could  get  round  him,"  said  Slone, 

7  83 


WILDFIRE 

thinking  hard  and  narrowing  his  gaze  to  scan  the  circle 
of  wall  and  slope.  "Why  not?  .  .  .  No  wind  at  night. 
That  grass  would  burn  slow  till  mornin' — till  the  wind 
came  up — an'  it's  been  west  for  days.'* 

Suddenly  Slone  began  to  pound  the  patient  Nagger  and 
to  cry  out  to  him  in  wild  exultance. 

"Old  horse,  we've  got  him!  .  .  .  We've  got  him!  .  .  . 
We'll  put  a  rope  on  him  before  this  time  to-morrow!" 

Slone  yielded  to  his  strange,  wild  joy,  but  it  did  not 
last  long,  soon  succeeding  to  sober,  keen  thought.  He 
rode  down  into  the  bowl  a  mile,  making  absolutely  certain 
that  Wildfire  could  not  climb  out  on  that  side.  The  far 
end,  beyond  the  monuments,  was  a  sheer  wall  of  rock. 
Then  he  crossed  to  the  left  side.  Here  the  sandy  slope 
was  almost  too  steep  for  even  him  to  go  up.  And  there 
was  grass  that  would  burn.  He  returned  to  the  pass 
assured  that  Wildfire  had  at  last  fallen  into  a  trap  the 
like  Slone  had  never  dreamed  of.  The  great  horse  was 
doomed  to  run  into  living  flame  or  the  whirling  noose  of 
a  lasso. 

Then  Slone  reflected.  Nagger  had  that  very  morning 
had  his  fill  of  good  water — the  first  really  satisfying  drink 
for  days.  If  he  was  rested  that  day,  on  the  morrow  he 
would  be  fit  for  the  grueling  work  possibly  in  store  for 
him.  Slone  unsaddled  the  horse  and  turned  him  loose, 
and  with  a  snort  he  made  down  the  gentle  slope  for  the 
grass.  Then  Slone  carried  his  saddle  to  a  shady  spot 
afforded  by  a  slab  of  rock  and  a  dwarf  cedar,  and  here  he 
composed  himself  to  rest  and  watch  and  think  and  wait. 

Wildfire  was  plainly  in  sight  no  more  than  two  miles 
away.  Gradually  he  was  grazing  along  toward  the  monu 
ments  and  the  far  end  of  the  great  basin.  Slone  believed, 
because  the  place  was  so  large,  that  Wildfire  thought 
there  was  a  way  out  on  the  other  side  or  over  the  slopes 
or  through  the  walls.  Never  before  had  the  far-sighted 
stallion  made  a  mistake.  Slone  suddenly  felt  the  keen, 
stabbing  fear  of  an  outlet  somewhere.  But  it  left  him 

84 


WILDFIRE 

quickly.  He  had  studied  those  slopes  and  walls.  Wild 
fire  could  not  get  out,  except  by  the  pass  he  had  entered, 
unless  he  could  fly. 

Slone  lay  in  the  shade,  his  head  propped  on  his  saddle, 
and  while  gazing  down  into  the  shimmering  hollow  he 
began  to  plan.  He  calculated  that  he  must  be  able  to 
carry  fire  swiftly  across  the  far  end  of  the  basin,  so  that 
he  would  not  be  absent  long  from  the  mouth  of  the  pass. 
Fire  was  always  a  difficult  matter,  since  he  must  depend 
only  on  flint  and  steel.  He  decided  to  wait  till  dark,  build 
a  fire  with  dead  cedar  sticks,  and  carry  a  bundle  of  them 
with  burning  ends.  He  felt  assured  that  the  wind 
caused  by  riding  would  keep  them  burning.  After  he 
had  lighted  the  grass  all  he  had  to  do  was  to  hurry  back 
to  his  station  and  there  await  developments. 

The  day  passed  slowly,  and  it  was  hot.  The  heat 
waves  rose  in  dark,  wavering  lines  and  veils  from  the 
valley.  The  wind  blew  almost  a  gale.  Thin,  curling 
sheets  of  sand  blew  up  over  the  crests  of  the  slopes,  and 
the  sound  it  made  was  a  soft,  silken  rustling,  very  low. 
The  sky  was  a  steely  blue  above  and  copper  close  over  the 
distant  walls. 

That  afternoon,  toward  the  close,  Slone  ate  the  last  of 
the  meat.  At  sunset  the  wind  died  away  and  the  air 
cooled.  There  was  a  strip  of  red  along  the  wall  of  rock 
and  on  the  tips  of  the  monuments,  and  it  lingered  there 
for  long,  a  strange,  bright  crown.  Nagger  was  not  far 
away,  but  Wildfire  had  disappeared,  probably  behind 
one  of  the  monuments. 

When  twilight  fell  Slone  went  down  after  Nagger  and, 
returning  with  him,  put  on  bridle  and  saddle.  Then  he 
began  to  search  for  suitable  sticks  of  wood.  Farther 
back  in  the  pass  he  found  stunted  dead  cedars,  and  from 
these  secured  enough  for  his  purpose.  He  kindled  a  fire 
and  burnt  the  ends  of  the  sticks  into  red  embers.  Mak 
ing  a  bundle  of  these,  he  put  them  under  his  arm,  the  dull, 
glowing  ends  backward,  and  then  mounted  his  horse. 

85 


WILDFIRE 

It  was  just  about  dark  when  he  faced  down  into  the 
valley.  When  he  reached  level  ground  he  kept  to  the 
edge  of  the  left  slope  and  put  Nagger  to  a  good  trot. 
The  grass  and  brush  were  scant  here,  and  the  color  of  the 
sand  was  light,  so  he  had  no  difficulty  in  traveling.  From 
time  to  time  his  horse  went  through  grass,  and  its  dry, 
crackling  rustle,  showing  how  it  would  burn,  was  music 
to  Slone.  Gradually  the  monuments  began  to  loom  up, 
bold  and  black  against  the  blue  sky,  with  stars  seemingly 
hanging  close  over  them.  Slone  had  calculated  that  the 
basin  was  smaller  than  it  really  was,  in  both  length  and 
breadth.  This  worried  him.  Wildfire  might  see  or  hear 
or  scent  him,  and  make  a  break  back  to  the  pass  and  thus 
escape.  Slone  was  glad  when  the  huge,  dark  monu 
ments  were  indistinguishable  from  the  black,  frowning 
wall.  He  had  to  go  slower  here,  because  of  the  darkness. 
But  at  last  he  reached  the  slow  rise  of  jumbled  rock  that 
evidently  marked  the  extent  of  weathering  on  that  side. 
Here  he  turned  to  the  right  and  rode  out  into  the  valley. 
The  floor  was  level  and  thickly  overgrown  with  long,  dead 
grass  and  dead  greasewood,  as  dry  as  tinder.  It  was  easy 
to  account  for  the  dryness;  neither  snow  nor  rain  had 
visited  that  valley  for  many  months.  Slone  whipped  one 
of  the  sticks  in  the  wind  and  soon  had  the  smoldering  end 
red  and  showering  sparks.  Then  he  dropped  the  stick  in 
the  grass,  with  curious  intent  and  a  strange  feeling  of  regret. 

Instantly  the  grass  blazed  with  a  little  sputtering  roar. 
Nagger  snorted.  "Wildfire!"  exclaimed  Slone.  That 
word  was  a  favorite  one  with  riders,  and  now  Slone  used 
it  both  to  call  out  his  menace  to  the  stallion  and  to  ex 
press  his  feeling  for  that  blaze,  already  running  wild. 

Without  looking  back  Slone  rode  across  the  valley, 
dropping  a  glowing  stick  every  quarter  of  a  mile.  When 
he  reached  the  other  side  there  were  a  dozen  fires  behind 
him,  burning  slowly,  with  white  smoke  rising  lazily.  Then 
he  loped  Nagger  along  the  side  back  to  the  sandy  ascent, 
and  on  up  to  the  mouth  of  the  pass.  There  he  searched 

86 


WILDFIRE 

for  tracks.  Wildfire  had  not  gone  out,  and  Slone  experi 
enced  relief  and  exultation.  He  took  up  a  position  in 
the  middle  of  the  narrowest  part  of  the  pass,  and  there, 
with  Nagger  ready  for  anything,  he  once  more  composed 
himself  to  watch  and  wait. 

Far  across  the  darkness  of  the  valley,  low  down, 
twelve  lines  of  fire,  widely  separated,  crept  toward  one 
another.  They  appeared  thin  and  slow,  with  only  an  oc 
casional  leaping  flame.  And  some  of  the  black  spaces 
must  have  been  monuments,  blotting  out  the  creeping 
snail-lines  of  red.  Slone  watched,  strangely  fascinated. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that?"  he  said,  aloud,  and  he 
meant  his  query  for  Wildfire. 

As  he  watched  the  lines  perceptibly  lengthened  and 
brightened  and  pale  shadows  of  smoke  began  to  appear. 
Over  at  the  left  of  the  valley  the -two  brightest  fires,  the 
first  he  had  started,  crept  closer  and  closer  together. 
They  seemed  long  in  covering  distance.  But  not  a  breath 
of  wind  stirred,  and  besides  they  really  might  move 
swiftly,  without  looking  so  to  Slone.  When  the  two  lines 
met  a  sudden  and  larger  blaze  rose. 

"Ah!"  said  the  rider,  and  then  he  watched  the  other 
lines  creeping  together.  How  slowly  fire  moved,  he 
thought.  The  red  stallion  would  have  every  chance  to 
run  between  those  lines,  if  he  dared.  But  a  wild  horse 
feared  nothing  like  fire.  This  one  would  not  run  the 
gantlet  of  flames.  Nevertheless,  Slone  felt  more  and 
more  relieved  as  the  lines  closed.  The  hours  of  the  night 
dragged  past  until  at  length  one  long,  continuous  line  of 
fire  spread  level  across  the  valley,  its  bright,  red  line 
broken  only  where  the  monuments  of  stone  were  sil 
houetted  against  it. 

The  darkness  of  the  valley  changed.  The  light  of  the 
moon  changed.  The  radiance  of  the  stars  changed. 
Either  the  line  of  fire  was  finding  denser  fuel  to  consume 
or  it  was  growing  appreciably  closer,  for  the  flames  be 
gan  to  grow,  to  leap,  and  to  flare. 


WILDFIRE 

Slone  strained  his  ears  for  the  thud  of  hoofs  on  sand. 

The  time  seemed  endless  in  its  futility  of  results,  but 
fleeting  after  it  had  passed;  and  he  could  tell  how  the 
hours  fled  by  the  ever-recurring  need  to  replenish  the  little 
fire  he  kept  burning  in  the  pass. 

A  broad  belt  of  valley  grew  bright  in  the  light,  and 
behind  it  loomed  the  monuments,  weird  and  dark,  with 
columns  of  yellow  and  white  smoke  wreathing  them. 

Suddenly  Slone's  sensitive  ear  vibrated  to  a  thrilling 
sound.  He  leaned  down  to  place  his  ear  to  the  sand. 
Rapid,  rhythmic  beat  of  hoofs  made  him  leap  to  his  feet, 
reaching  for  his  lasso  with  right  hand  and  a  gun  with 
his  left. 

Nagger  lifted  his  head,  sniffed  the  air,  and  snorted. 
Slone  peered  into  the  black  belt  of  gloom  that  lay  below 
him.  It  would  be  hard  to  see  a  horse  there,  unless  he  got 
high  enough  to  be  silhouetted  against  that  line  of  fire 
now  flaring  to  the  sky.  But  he  heard  the  beat  of  hoofs, 
swift,  sharp,  louder — louder.  The  night  shadows  were 
deceptive.  That  wonderful  light  confused  him,  made  the 
place  unreal.  Was  he  dreaming?  Or  had  the  long  chase 
and  his  privations  unhinged  his  mind?  He  reached  for 
Nagger.  No!  The  big  black  was  real,  alive,  quivering, 
pounding  the  sand.  He  scented  an  enemy. 

Once  more  Slone  peered  down  into  the  void  or  what 
seemed  a  void.  But  it,  too,  had  changed,  lightened. 
The  whole  valley  was  brightening.  Great  palls  of  curling 
smoke  rose  white  and  yellow,  to  turn  back  as  the  monu 
ments  met  their  crests,  and  then  to  roll  upward,  blotting 
out  the  stars.  It  was  such  a  light  as  he  had  never  seen, 
except  in  dreams.  Pale  moonlight  and  dimmed  star 
light  and  wan  dawn  all  vague  and  strange  and  shadowy 
under  the  wild  and  vivid  light  of  burning  grass. 

In  the  pale  path  before  Slone,  that  fanlike  slope  of  sand 
which  opened  down  into  the  valley,  appeared  a  swiftly 
moving  black  object,  like  a  fleeting  phantom.  It  was  a 
phantom  horse.  Slone  felt  that  his  eyes,  deceived  by  his 

88 


WILDFIRE 

mind,  saw  racing  images.  Many  a  wild  chase  he  had 
lived  in  dreams  on  some  far  desert.  But  what  was  that 
beating  in  his  ears — sharp,  swift,  even,  rhythmic?  Never 
had  his  ears  played  him  false.  Never  had  he  heard 
things  in  his  dreams.  That  running  object  was  a  horse 
and  he  was  coming  like  the  wind.  Slone  felt  something 
grip  his  heart.  All  the  time  and  endurance  and  pain 
and  thirst  and  suspense  and  longing  and  hopelessness — 
the  agony  of  the  whole  endless  chase — closed  tight  on  his 
heart  in  that  instant. 

The  running  horse  halted  just  in  the  belt  of  light  cast 
by  the  burning  grass.  There  he  stood  sharply  defined, 
clear  as  a  cameo,  not  a  hundred  paces  from  Slone.  It 
was  Wildfire. 

Slone  uttered  an  involuntary  cry.  Thrill  on  thrill 
shot  through  him.  Delight  and  hope  and  fear  and  despair 
claimed  him  in  swift,  successive  flashes.  And  then  again 
the  ruling  passion  of  a  rider  held  him — the  sheer  glory  of 
a  grand  and  unattainable  horse.  For  Slone  gave  up 
Wildfire  in  that  splendid  moment.  How  had  he  ever 
dared  to  believe  he  could  capture  that  wild  stallion? 
Slone  looked  and  looked,  filling  his  mind,  regretting  noth 
ing,  sure  that  the  moment  was  reward  for  all  he  had 
endured. 

The  weird  lights  magnified  Wildfire  and  showed  him 
clearly.  He  seemed  gigantic.  He  shone  black  against  the 
fire.  His  head  was  high,  his  mane  flying.  Behind  him 
the  fire  flared  and  the  valley-wide  column  of  smoke  rolled 
majestically  upward,  and  the  great  monuments  seemed  to 
retreat  darkly  and  mysteriously  as  the  flames  advanced 
beyond  them.  It  was  a  beautiful,  unearthly  spectacle, 
with  its  silence  the  strangest  feature. 

But  suddenly  Wildfire  broke  that  silence  with  a  whistle 
which  to  Slone' s  overstrained  faculties  seemed  a  blast 
as  piercing  as  the  splitting  sound  of  lightning.  And 
with  the  whistle  Wildfire  plunged  up  toward  the  pass. 

Slone  yelled  at  the  top  of  his  lungs  and  fired  his  gun 

89 


WILDFIRE 

before  he  could  terrorize  the  stallion  and  drive  him  back 
down  the  slope.  Soon  Wildfire  became  again  a  running 
black  object,  and  then  he  disappeared. 

The  great  line  of  fire  had  gotten  beyond  the  monu 
ments  and  now  stretched  unbroken  across  the  valley  from 
wall  to  slope.  Wildfire  could  never  pierce  that  line  of 
flames.  And  now  Slone  saw,  in  the  paling  sky  to  the  east, 
that  dawn  was  at  hand. 


CHAPTER  VII 

SLONE  looked  grimly  glad  when  simultaneously  with 
the  first  red  flash  of  sunrise  a  breeze  fanned  his 
cheek.  All  that  was  needed  now  was  a  west  wind.  And 
here  came  the  assurance  of  it. 

The  valley  appeared  hazy  and  smoky,  with  slow,  roll 
ing  clouds  low  down  where  the  line  of  fire  moved. 
The  coming  of  daylight  paled  the  blaze  of  the  grass, 
though  here  and  there  Slone  caught  flickering  glimpses 
of  dull  red  flame.  The  wild  stallion  kept  to  the  center 
of  the  valley,  restlessly  facing  this  way  and  that,  but 
never  toward  the  smoke.  Slone  made  sure  that  Wildfire 
gradually  gave  ground  as  the  line  of  smoke  slowly  worked 
toward  him. 

Every  moment  the  breeze  freshened,  grew  steadier  and 
stronger,  until  Slone  saw  that  it  began  to  clear  the  valley 
of  the  low-hanging  smoke.  There  came  a  time  when 
once  more  the  blazing  line  extended  across  from  slope  to 
slope. 

Wildfire  was  cornered,  trapped.  Many  times  Slone 
nervously  uncoiled  and  recoiled  his  lasso.  Presently  the 
great  chance  of  his  life  would  come — the  hardest  and  most 
important  throw  he  would  ever  have  with  a  rope.  He  did 
not  miss  often,  but  then  he  missed  sometimes,  and  here 
he  must  be  swift  and  sure.  It  annoyed  him  that  his 
hands  perspired  and  trembled  and  that  something  weighty 
seemed  to  obstruct  his  breathing.  He  muttered  that  he 
was  pretty  much  worn  out,  not  in  the  best  of  condition 
for  a  hard  fight  with  a  wild  horse.  Still  he  would  capture 
Wildfire;  his  mind  was  unalterably  set  there.  He  an- 


WILDFIRE 

ticipated  that  the  stallion  would  make  a  final  and  des 
perate  rush  past  him;  and  he  had  his  plan  of  action  all 
outlined.  What  worried  him  was  the  possibility  of 
Wildfire  doing  some  unforeseen  feat  at  the  very  last. 
Slone  was  prepared  for  hours  of  strained  watching,  and 
then  a  desperate  effort,  -and  then  a  shock  that  might  kill 
Wildfire  and  cripple  Nagger,  or  a  long  race  and  fight. 

But  he  soon  discovered  that  he  was  wrong  about  the 
long  watch  and  wait.  The  wind  had  grown  strong  and 
was  driving  the  fire  swiftly.  The  flames,  fanned  by  the 
breeze,  leaped  to  a  formidable  barrier.  In  less  than  an 
hour,  though  the  time  seemed  only  a  few  moments  to  the 
excited  Slone,  Wildfire  had  been  driven  down  toward  the 
narrowing  neck  of  the  valley,  and  he  had  begun  to  run, 
to  and  fro,  back  and  forth.  Any  moment,  then,  Slone 
expected  him  to  grow  terrorized  and  to  come  tearing  up 
toward  the  pass. 

Wildfire  showed  evidence  of  terror,  but  he  did  not 
attempt  to  make  the  pass.  Instead  he  went  at  the  right- 
hand  slope  of  the  valley  and  began  to  climb.  The  slope 
was  steep  and  soft,  yet  the  stallion  climbed  up  and  up. 
The  dust  flew  in  clouds;  the  gravel  rolled  down,  and  the 
sand  followed  in  long  streams.  Wildfire  showed  his  keen 
ness  by  zigzagging  up  the  slope. 

"  Go  ahead,  you  red  devil !"  yelled  Slone.  He  was  much 
elated.  In  that  soft  bank  Wildfire  would  tire  out  while 
not  hurting  himself. 

Slone  watched  the  stallion  in  admiration  and  pity  and 
exultation.  Wildfire  did  not  make  much  headway,  for  he 
slipped  back  almost  as  much  as  he  gained.  He  attempted 
one  place  after  another  where  he  failed.  There  was  a 
bank  of  clay,  some  few  feet  high,  and  he  could  not  round 
it  at  either  end  or  surmount  it  in  the  middle.  Finally 
he  literally  pawed  and  cut  a  path,  much  as  if  he  were 
digging  in  the  sand  for  water.  When  he  got  over  that  he 
was  not  much  better  off.  The  slope  above  was  endless 
and  grew  steeper,  more  difficult  toward  the  top.  Slone 

92 


WILDFIRE 

knew  absolutely  that  no  horse  could  climb  over  it.  He 
grew  apprehensive,  however,  for  Wildfire  might  stick  up 
there  on  the  slope  until  the  line  of  fire  passed.  The 
horse  apparently  shunned  any  near  proximity  to  the  fire, 
and  performed  prodigious  efforts  to  escape. 

"He'll  be  ridin'  an  avalanche  pretty  soon,"  muttered 
Slone. 

Long  sheets  of  sand  and  gravel  slid  down  to  spill  thinly 
over  the  low  bank.  Wildfire,  now  sinking  to  his  knees, 
worked  steadily  upward  till  he  had  reached  a  point  half 
way  up  the  slope,  at  the  head  of  a  long,  yellow  bank  of 
treacherous-looking  sand.  Here  he  was  halted  by  a  low 
bulge,  which  he  might  have  surmounted  had  his  feet 
been  free.  But  he  stood  deep  in  the  sand.  For  the  first 
time  he  looked  down  at  the  sweeping  fire,  and  then  at 
Slone. 

Suddenly  the  bank  of  sand  began  to  slide  with  him. 
He  snorted  in  fright.  The  avalanche  started  slowly  and 
was  evidently  no  mere  surface  slide.  It  was  deep.  It 
stopped — then  started  again — and  again  stopped.  Wild 
fire  appeared  to  be  sinking  deeper  and  deeper.  His  strug 
gles  only  embedded  him  more  firmly.  Then  the  bank  of 
sand,  with  an  ominous,  low  roar,  began  to  move  once 
more.  This  time  it  slipped  swiftly.  The  dust  rose  in  a 
cloud,  almost  obscuring  the  horse.  Long  streams  of 
gravel  rattled  down,  and  waterfalls  of  sand  waved  over 
the  steps  of  the  slope. 

Just  as  suddenly  the  avalanche  stopped  again.  Slone 
saw,  from  the  great  oval  hole  it  had  left  above,  that  it 
was  indeed  deep.  That  was  the  reason  it  did  not  slide 
readily.  When  the  dust  cleared  away  Slone  saw  the 
stallion,  sunk  to  his  flanks  in  the  sand,  utterly  helpless. 

With  a  wild  whoop  Slone  leaped  off  Nagger,  and,  a 
lasso  in  each  hand,  he  ran  down  the  long  bank.  The 
fire  was  perhaps  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant,  and,  since 
the  grass  was  thinning  out,  it  was  not  coming  so  fast  as 
it  had  been.  The  position  of  the  stallion  was  half-way 

93 


WILDFIRE 

between  the  fire  and  Slone,  and  a  hundred  yards  up  the 
slope. 

Like  a  madman  Slone  climbed  up  through  the  dragging, 
loose  sand.  He  was  beside  himself  with  a  fury  of  excite 
ment.  He  fancied  his  eyes  were  failing  him,  that  it  was 
not  possible  the  great  horse  really  was  up  there,  helpless 
in  the  sand.  Yet  every  huge  stride  Slone  took  brought 
.him  closer  to  a  fact  he  could  not  deny.  In  his  eagerness 
he  slipped,  and  fell,  and  crawled,  and  leaped,  until  he 
reached  the  slide  which  held  Wildfire  prisoner. 

The  stallion  might  have  been  fast  in  quicksand,  up 
to  his  body,  for  all  the  movement  he  could  make.  He 
could  move  only  his  head.  He  held  that  up,  his  eyes  wild, 
showing  the  whites,  his  foaming  mouth  wide  open,  his 
teeth  gleaming.  A  sound  like  a  scream  rent  the  air. 
Terrible  fear  and  hate  were  expressed  in  that  piercing 
neigh.  And  shaggy,  wet,  dusty  red,  with  all  of  brute 
savageness  in  the  look  and  action  of  his  head,  he  appeared 
hideous. 

As  Slone  leaped  within  roping  distance  the  avalanche 
slipped  a  foot  or  two,  halted,  slipped  once  more,  and 
slowly  started  again  with  that  low  roar.  He  did  not  care 
whether  it  slipped  or  stopped.  Like  a  wolf  he  leaped 
closer,  whirling  his  rope.  The  loop  hissed  round  his  head 
and  whistled  as  he  flung  it.  And  when  fiercely  he  jerked 
back  on  the  rope,  the  noose  closed  tight  round  Wildfire's 
neck. 

"By  G — d — I — got — a  rope — on  him!"  cried  Slone,  in 
hoarse  pants. 

He  stared,  unbelieving.  It  was  unreal,  that  sight — 
unreal  like  the  slow,  grinding  movement  of  the  avalanche 
under  him.  Wildfire's  head  seemed  a  demon  head  of 
hate.  It  reached  out,  mouth  agape,  to  bite,  to  rend. 
That  horrible  scream  could  not  be  the  scream  of  a 
horse. 

Slone  was  a  wild-horse  hunter,  a  rider,  and  when  that 
second  of  incredulity  flashed  by,  then  came  the  moment 

94 


WILDFIRE 

of  triumph.  No  moment  could  ever  equal  that  one,  when 
he  realized  he  stood  there  with  a  rope  around  that  grand 
stallion's  neck.  All  the  days  and  the  miles  and  the  toil 
and  the  endurance  and  the  hopelessness  and  the  hunger 
were  paid  for  in  that  moment.  His  heart  seemed  too 
large  for  his  breast. 

"I  tracked — you!"  he  cried,  savagely.  "I  stayed — 
with  you!  .  .  .  An'  I  got  a  rope — on  you!  An' — I'll  ride 
you — you  red  devil!" 

The  passion  of  the  man  was  intense.  That  endless, 
racking  pursuit  had  brought  out  all  the  hardness  the 
desert  had  engendered  in  him.  Almost  hate,  instead  of 
love,  spoke  in  Slone's  words.  He  hauled  on  the  lasso, 
pulling  the  stallion's  head  down  and  down.  The  action 
was  the  lust  of  capture  as  well  as  the  rider's  instinctive 
motive  to  make  the  horse  fear  him.  Life  was  unquench- 
ably  wild  and  strong  in  that  stallion;  it  showed  in  the 
terror  which  made  him  hideous.  And  man  and  beast 
somehow  resembled  each  other  in  that  moment  which 
was  inimical  to  noble  life. 

The  avalanche  slipped  with  little  jerks,  as  if  treacher 
ously  loosing  its  hold  for  a  long  plunge.  The  line  of  fire 
below  ate  at  the  bleached  grass  and  the  long  column  of 
smoke  curled  away  on  the  wind. 

Slone  held  the  taut  lasso  with  his  left  hand,  and  with 
the  right  he  swung  the  other  rope,  catching  the  noose 
round  Wildfire's  nose.  Then  letting  go  of  the  first  rope 
he  hauled  on  the  other,  pulling  the  head  of  the  stallion 
far  down.  Hand  over  hand  Slone  closed  in  on  the  horse. 
He  leaped  on  Wildfire's  head,  pressed  it  down,  and,  hold 
ing  it  down  on  the  sand  with  his  knees,  with  swift  fingers 
he  tied  the  noose  in  a  hackamore — an  improvised  halter. 
Then,  just  as  swiftly,  he  bound  his  scarf  tight  round  Wild 
fire's  head,  blindfolding  him. 

"All  so  easy!"  exclaimed  Slone,  under  his  breath. 
"Lord!  who  would  believe  it!  ...  Is  it  a  dream?" 

He  rose  and  let  the  stallion  have  a  free  head. 

95 


WILDFIRE 

"Wildfire,  I  got  a  rope  on  you — an'  a  hackamore — an* 
a  blinder,"  said  Slone.  "An'  if  I  had  a  bridle  I'd  put  that 
on  you.  .  .  .  Who'd  ever  believe  you'd  catch  yourself, 
draggin'  in  the  sand?" 

Slone,  finding  himself  falling  on  the  sand,  grew  alive 
to  the  augmented  movement  of  the  avalanche.  It  had 
begun  to  slide,  to  heave  and  bulge  and  crack.  Dust 
rose  in  clouds  from  all  around.  The  sand  appeared  to 
open  and  let  him  sink  to  his  knees.  The  rattle  of  gravel 
was  drowned  in  a  soft  roar.  Then  he  shot  down  swiftly, 
holding  the  lassoes,  keeping  himself  erect,  and  riding  as 
if  in  a  boat.  He  felt  the  successive  steps  of  the  slope, 
and  then  the  long  incline  below,  and  then  the  checking 
and  rising  and  spreading  of  the  avalanche  as  it  slowed 
down  on  the  level.  All  movement  then  was  checked 
violently.  He  appeared  to  be  half  buried  in  sand.  While 
he  struggled  to  extricate  himself  the  thick  dust  blew 
away  and  settled  so  that  he  could  see.  Wildfire  lay 
before  him,  at  the  edge  of  the  slide,  and  now  he  was  not 
so  deeply  embedded  as  he  had  been  up  on  the  slope.  He 
was  struggling  and  probably  soon  would  have  been  able 
to  get  out.  The  line  of  fire  was  close  now,  but  Slone  did 
not  fear  that. 

At  his  shrill  whistle  Nagger  bounded  toward  him,  obedi 
ent,  but  snorting,  with  ears  laid  back.  He  halted.  A 
second  whistle  started  him  again.  Slone  finally  dug  him 
self  out  of  the  sand,  pulled  the  lassoes  out,  and  ran  the 
length  of  them  toward  Nagger.  The  black  showed  both 
fear  and  fight.  His  eyes  rolled  and  he  half  shied  away. 

"Come  on!"  called  Slone,  harshly. 

He  got  a  hand  on  the  horse,  pulled  him  round,  and, 
mounting  in  a  flash,  wound  both  lassoes  round  the  pommel 
of  the  saddle. 

"Haul  him  out,  Nagger,  old  boy!"  cried  Slone,  and 
he  dug  spurs  into  the  black. 

One  plunge  of  Nagger's  slid  the  stallion  out  of  the 
sand.  Snorting,  wild,  blinded,  Wildfire  got  up,  shaking 

96 


WILDFIRE 

in  every  limb.  He  could  not  see  his  enemies.  The  blow 
ing  smoke,  right  in  his  nose,  made  scent  impossible. 
But  in  the  taut  lassoes  he  sensed  the  direction  of  his 
captors.  He  plunged,  rearing  at  the  end  of  the  plunge, 
and  struck  out  viciously  with  his  hoofs.  Slone,  quick 
with  spur  and  bridle,  swerved  Nagger  aside  and  Wildfire, 
off  his  balance,  went  down  with  a  crash.  Slone  dragged 
him,  stretched  him  out,  pulled  him  over  twice  before  he 
got  forefeet  planted.  Once  up,  he  reared  again,  screech 
ing  his  rage,  striking  wildly  with  his  hoofs.  Slone  wheeled 
aside  and  toppled  him  over  again. 

"Wildfire,  it's  no  fair  fight,"  he  called,  grimly.  "But 
you  led  me  a  chase.  .  .  .  An'  you  learn  right  now  I'm 
boss!" 

Again  he  dragged  the  stallion.  He  was  ruthless.  He 
would  have  to  be  so,  stopping  just  short  of  maiming  or 
killing  the  horse,  else  he  would  never  break  him.  But 
Wildfire  was  nimble.  He  got  to  his  feet  and  this  time 
he  lunged  out.  Nagger,  powerful  as  he  was,  could  not 
sustain  the  tremendous  shock,  and  went  down.  Slone 
saved  himself  with  a  rider's  supple  skill,  falling  clear  of 
the  horse,  and  he  leaped  again  into  the  saddle  as  Nagger 
pounded  up.  Nagger  braced  his  huge  frame  and  held 
the  plunging  stallion.  But  the  saddle  slipped  a  little,  the 
cinches  cracked.  Slone  eased  the  strain  by  wheeling  after 
Wildfire. 

The  horses  had  worked  away  from  the  fire,  and  Wild 
fire,  free  of  the  stifling  smoke,  began  to  break  and  lunge 
and  pitch,  plunging  round  Nagger  in  a  circle,  running 
blindly,  but  with  unerring  scent.  Slone,  by  masterly 
horsemanship,  easily  avoided  the  rushes,  and  made  a 
pivot  of  Nagger,  round  which  the  wild  horse  dashed  in 
his  frenzy.  It  seemed  that  he  no  longer  tried  to  free 
himself.  He  lunged  to  kill. 

"Steady,  Nagger,  old  boy!"  Slone  kept  calling.  "He'll 
never  get  at  you.  ...  If  he  slips  that  blinder  I'll  kill 
him!" 

97 


WILDFIRE 

The  stallion  was  a  fiend  in  his  fury,  quicker  than  a 
panther,  wonderful  on  his  feet,  and  powerful  as  an  ox. 
But  he  was  at  a  disadvantage.  He  could  not  see.  And 
Slone,  in  his  spoken  intention  to  kill  Wildfire  should  the 
scarf  slip,  acknowledged  that  he  never  would  have  a 
chance  to  master  the  stallion.  Wildfire  was  bigger,  faster, 
stronger  than  Slone  had  believed,  and  as  for  spirit,  that 
was  a  grand  and  fearful  thing  to  see. 

The  soft  sand  in  the  pass  was  plowed  deep  before  Wild 
fire  paused  in  his  mad  plunges.  He  was  wet  and  heaving. 
His  red  coat  seemed  to  blaze.  His  mane  stood  up  and 
his  ears  lay  flat. 

Slone  uncoiled  the  lassoes  from  the  pommel  and  slacked 
them  a  little.  Wildfire  stood  up,  striking  at  the  air, 
snorting  fiercely.  Slone  tried  to  wheel  Nagger  in  close 
behind  the  stallion.  Both  horse  and  man  narrowly  es 
caped  the  vicious  hoofs.  But  Slone  had  closed  in.  He  took 
a  desperate  chance  and  spurred  Nagger  in  a  single  leap 
as  Wildfire  reared  again.  The  horses  collided.  Slone 
hauled  the  lassoes  tight.  The  impact  threw  Wildfire  off 
his  balance,  just  as  Slone  had  calculated,  and  as  the 
stallion  plunged  down  on  four  feet  Slone  spurred  Nagger 
close  against  him.  Wildfire  was  a  little  in  the  lead.  He 
could  only  half  rear  now,  for  the  heaving,  moving  Nagger, 
always  against  him,  jostled  him  down,  and  Slone's  iron 
arm  hauled  on  the  short  ropes.  When  Wildfire  turned 
to  bite,  Slone  knocked  the  vicious  nose  back  with  a  long 
swing  of  his  fist. 

Up  the  pass  the  horses  plunged.  With  a  rider's  wild 
joy  Slone  saw  the  long  green-and-gray  valley,  and  the  iso 
lated  monuments  in  the  distance.  There,  on  that  wide 
stretch,  he  would  break  Wildfire.  How  marvelously 
luck  had  favored  him  at  the  last ! 

"Run,  you  red  devil!"  Slone  called.  "Drag  us  around 
now  till  you're  done!" 

They  left  the  pass  and  swept  out  upon  the  waste  of 
sage.  Slone  realized,  from  the  stinging  of  the  sweet  wind 


WILDFIRE 

in  his  face,  that  Nagger  was  being  pulled  along  at  a  tre 
mendous  pace.  The  faithful  black  could  never  have  made 
the  wind  cut  so.  Lower  the  wild  stallion  stretched  and 
swifter  he  ran,  till  it  seemed  to  Slone  that  death  must 
end  that  thunderbolt  race. 
8 


CHAPTER 

UCY  BOSTIL  had  called  twice  to  her  father  and  he 
had  not  answered.  He  was  out  at  the  hitching-rail, 
with  Holley,  the  rider,  and  two  other  men.  If  he  heard 
Lucy  he  gave  no  sign  of  it.  She  had  on  her  chaps  and 
did  not  care  to  go  any  farther  than  the  door  where  she 
stood. 

"  Somers  has  gone  to  Durango  an'  Shugrue  is  out  huntin' 
hosses,"  Lucy  heard  Bostil  say,  gruffly. 

"Wai  now,  I  reckon  I  could  handle  the  boat  an*  fetch 
Creech's  hosses  over,"  said  Holley. 

Bostil  raised  an  impatient  hand,  as  if  to  wave  aside 
Holley's  assumption. 

Then  one  of  the  other  two  men  spoke  up.  Lucy  had 
seen  him  before,  but  did  not  know  his  name. 

"Sure  there  ain't  any  need  to  rustle  the  job.  The 
river  hain't  showed  any  signs  of  risin'  yet.  But  Creech 
is  worryin*.  He  allus  is  worryin*  over  them  hosses. 
No  wonder!  Thet  Blue  Roan  is  sure  a  hoss.  Yesterday 
at  two  miles  he  showed  Creech  he  was  a  sight  faster  than 
last  year.  The  grass  is  gone  over  there.  Creech  is  grain- 
in'  his  stock  these  last  few  days.  An'  thet's  expensive." 

"How  about  the  flat  up  the  canon?"  queried  Bostil. 
"Ain't  there  any  grass  there?" 

"Reckon  not.  It's  the  dryest  spell  Creech  ever  had," 
replied  the  other.  "An'  if  there  was  grass  it  wouldn't 
do  him  no  good.  A  landslide  blocked  the  only  trail  up." 

"Bostil,  them  hosses,  the  racers  special,  ought  to  be 
brought  acrost  the  river,"  said  Holley,  earnestly.  He 
loved  horses  and  was  thinking  of  them. 

100 


WILDFIRE 

"The  boat's  got  to  be  patched  tip,"  repli4  j  Bostil, 

shortly. 

It  occurred  to  Lucy  that  her  father  was  raise-  linking 
of  Creech's  thoroughbreds,  but  not  like  Holley.  She 
grew  grave  and  listened  intently. 

There  was  an  awkward  pause.  Creech's  rider,  who 
ever  he  was,  evidently  tried  to  conceal  his  anxiety.  He 
flicked  his  boots  with  a  quirt.  The  boots  were  covered  with 
wet  mud.  Probably  he  had  crossed  the  river  very  recently. 

"Wai,  when  will  you  have  the  hosses  fetched  over?" 
he  asked,  deliberately.  "Creech  '11  want  to  know." 

"Just  as  soon  as  the  boat's  mended,"  replied  Bostil. 
"I'll  put  Shugrue  on  the  job  to-morrow." 

"Thanks,  Bostil.  Sure,  thet  '11  be  all  right.  Creech  '11 
be  satisfied,"  said  the  rider,  as  if  relieved.  Then  he 
mounted,  and  with  his  companion  trotted  down  the  lane. 

The  lean,  gray  Holley  bent  a  keen  gaze  upon  Bostil. 
But  Bostil  did  not  notice  that;  he  appeared  preoccupied 
in  thought. 

"Bostil,  the  dry  winter  an'  spring  here  ain't  any  guar 
antee  thet  there  wasn't  a  lot  of  snow  up  in  the  moun 
tains." 

Holley's  remark  startled  Bostil. 

"No — it  ain't — sure,"  he  replied 

"An'  any  mornin'  along  now  we  might  wake  up  to  hear 
the  Colorado  boomin',"  went  on  Holley,  significantly. 

Bostil  did  not  reply  to  that. 

"Creech  hain't  lived  over  there  so  many  years.  What's 
he  know  about  the  river?  An'  fer  that  matter,  who 
knows  anythin'  sure  about  thet  hell-bent  river?" 

"It  ain't  my  business  thet  Creech  lives  over  there 
riskin'  his  stock  every  spring,"  replied  Bostil,  darkly. 

Holley  opened  his  lips  to  speak,  hesitated,  looked  away 
from  Bostil,  and  finally  said,  "No,  it  sure  ain't."  Then 
he  turned  and  walked  away,  head  bent  in  sober  thought. 

Bostil  came  toward  the  open  door  where  Lucy  stood. 
He  looked  somber.  At  her  greeting  he  seemed  startled. 

101 


WILDFIRE 

"What?"  he  said. 

"I  just  said,  'Hello,  Dad/"  she  replied,  demure 
ly.  Yet  sbe  thoughtfully  studied  her  father's  dark 
face. 

"Hello  yourself.  .  .  .  Did  you  know  Van  got  throwed 
an'  hurt?" 

"Yes." 

Bostil  swore  under  his  breath.  "There  ain't  any 
riders  on  the  range  thet  can  be  trusted,"  he  said,  dis 
gustedly.  "They're  all  the  same.  They  like  to  get  in  a 
bunch  an'  jeer  each  other  an'  bet.  They  want  mean 
hosses.  They  make  good  bosses  buck.  They  haven't 
any  use  for  a  hoss  thet  won't  buck.  They  all  want  to 
give  a  hoss  a  rakin*  over. .  .  .  Think  of  thet  fool  Van  gettin' 
throwed  by  a  two-dollar  Ute  mustang.  An'  hurt  so  he 
can't  ride  for  days!  With  them  races  comin*  soon!  It 
makes  me  sick." 

"Dad,  weren't  you  a  rider  once?"  asked  Lucy. 

"I  never  was  thet  kind." 

"Van  will  be  all  right  in  a  few  days." 

"No  matter.  It's  bad  business.  If  I  had  any  other 
rider  who  could  handle  the  King  I'd  let  Van  go." 

"I  can  get  just  as  much  out  of  the  King  as  Van  can," 
said  Lucy,  spiritedly. 

"You!"  exclaimed  Bostil.  But  there  was  pride  in  his 
glance. 

"I  know  I  can." 

"You  never  had  any  use  for  Sage  King,"  said  Bostil, 
as  if  he  had  been  wronged. 

"I  lore  the  King  a  little,  and  hate  him  a  lot,"  laughed 
Lucy. 

"Wai,  I  might  let  you  ride  at  thet,  if  Van  ain't  in 
shape,"  rejoined  her  father. 

"I  wouldn't  ride  him  in  the  race.  But  I'll  keep  him 
in  fine  fettle." 

"I'll  bet  you'd  like  to  see  Sarch  beat  him,"  said  Bostil, 
jealously. 

102 


WILDFIRE 

"Sure  I  would,"  replied  Lucy,  teasingly.  "But,  Dad, 
I'm  afraid  Sarch  never  will  beat  him." 

Bostil  grunted.  "See  here.  I  don't  want  any  weight 
up  on  the  King.  You  take  him  out  for  a  few  days.  An' 
ride  him !  Savvy  thet  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  Dad." 

"Give  him  miles  an'  miles — an'  then  comin'  home,  on 
good  trails,  ride  him  for  all  your  worth.  .  .  .  Now,  Lucy, 
keep  your  eye  open.  Don't  let  any  one  get  near  you 
on  the  sage." 

"I  won't.  .  .  .  Dad,  do  you  still  worry  about  poor  Joel 
Creech?" 

"Not  Joel.  But  I'd  rather  lose  all  my  stock  then  have 
Cordts  or  Dick  Sears  get  within  a  mile  of  you." 

"A  mile!"  exclaimed  Lucy,  lightly,  though  a  fleeting 
shade  crossed  her  face.  "Why,  I'd  run  away  from  him, 
if  jl  was  on  the  King,  even  if  he  got  within  ten  yards  of 
me." 

"A  mile  is  close  enough,  my  daughter,"  replied  Bostil. 
"Don't  ever  forget  to  keep  your  eye  open.  Cordts  has 
sworn  thet  if  he  can't  steal  the  King  he'll  get  you." 

"Oh!   he  prefers  the  horse  to  me." 

"Wai,  Lucy,  I've  a  sneakin'  idea  thet  Cordts  will  never 
leave  the  uplands  unless  he  gets  you  an'  the  King  both." 

"And,  Dad — you  consented  to  let  that  horse-thief  come 
to  our  races?"  exclaimed  Lucy,  with  heat. 

"Why  not?  He  can't  do  any  harm.  If  he  or  his  men 
get  uppish,  the  worse  for  them.  Cordts  gave  his  word 
not  to  turn  a  trick  till  after  the  races." 

"Do  you  trust  him?" 

"Yes.  But  his  men  might  break  loose,  away  from  his 
sight.  Especially  thet  Dick  Sears.  He's  a  bad  man. 
So  be  watchful  whenever  you  ride  out." 

As  Lucy  went  down  toward  the  corrals  she  was  thinking 
deeply.  She  could  always  tell,  woman-like,  when  her 
father  was  excited  or  agitated.  She  remembered  the  con 
versation  between  him  and  Creech's  rider.  She  remem- 

103 


WILDFIRE 

bered  the  keen  glance  old  Holley  had  bent  upon  him. 
And  mostly  she  remembered  the  somber  look  upon  his 
face.  She  did  not  like  that.  Once,  when  a  little  girl,  she 
had  seen  it  and  never  forgotten  it,  nor  the  thing  that  it  was 
associated  with — something  tragical  which  had  happened 
in  the  big  room.  There  had  been  loud,  angry  voices  of 
men — and  shots — and  then  the  men  carried  out  a  long 
form  covered  with  a  blanket.  She  loved  her  father,  but 
there  was  a  side  to  him  she  feared.  And  somehow  re 
lated  to  that  side  was  his  hardness  toward  Creech  and  his 
intolerance  of  any  rider  owning  a  fast  horse  and  his  ob 
session  in  regard  to  his  own  racers.  Lucy  had  often  tan 
talized  her  father  with  the  joke  that  if  it  ever  came  to 
a  choice  between  her  and  his  favorites  they  would  come 
first.  But  was  it  any  longer  a  joke?  Lucy  felt  that  she 
had  left  childhood  behind  with  its  fun  and  fancies,  and 
she  had  begun  to  look  at  life  thoughtfully. 

Sight  of  the  corrals,  however,  and  of  the  King  pranc 
ing  around,  drove  serious  thoughts  away.  There  were 
riders  there,  among  them  Farlane,  and  they  all  had  pleas 
ant  greetings  for  her. 

"Farlane,  Dad  says  I'm  to  take  out  Sage  King,"  an 
nounced  Lucy. 

"No!"  ejaculated  Farlane,  as  he  pocketed  his  pipe. 

"Sure.  And  I'm  to  ride  him.  You  know  how  Dad 
means  that." 

"Wai,  now,  I'm  doggoned!"  added  Farlane,  looking 
worried  and  pleased  at  once.  "I  reckon,  Miss  Lucy, 
you — you  wouldn't  fool  me?" 

"Why,  Farlane!"  returned  Lucy,  reproachfully.  "Did 
I  ever  do  a  single  thing  around  horses  that  you  didn't 
want  me  to?" 

Farlane  rubbed  his  chin  beard  somewhat  dubiously. 
"Wai,  Miss  Lucy,  not  exactly  while  you  was  around  the 
hosses.  But  I  reckon  when  you  onct  got  up,  you've 
sorta  forgot  a  few  times." 

All  the  riders  laughed,  and  Lucy  joined  them. 

104 


WILDFIRE 

"I'm  safe  when  I'm  up,  you  know  that,"  she  replied. 

They  brought  out  the  gray,  and  after  the  manner  of 
riders  who  had  the  care  of  a  great  horse  and  loved  him, 
they  curried  and  combed  and  rubbed  him  before  saddling 
him. 

"Reckon  you'd  better  ride  Van's  saddle,"  suggested 
Farlane.  "Them  races  is  close  now,  an'  a  strange 
saddle—" 

' '  Of  course.  Don't  change  anything  he's  used  to,  except 
the  stirrups,"  replied  Lucy. 

Despite  her  antipathy  toward  Sage  King,  Lucy  could 
not  gaze  at  him  without  all  a  rider's  glory  in  a  horse. 
He  was  sleek,  so  graceful,  so  racy,  so  near  the  soft  gray 
of  the  sage,  so  beautiful  in  build  and  action.  Then  he 
was  the  kind  of  a  horse  that  did  not  have  to  be  eternally 
watched.  He  was  spirited  and  full  of  life,  eager  to  run, 
but  when  Farlane  called  for  him  to  stand  still  he  obeyed. 
He  was  the  kind  of  a  horse  that  a  child  could  have  played 
around  in  safety.  He  never  kicked.  He  never  bit.  He 
never  bolted.  It  was  splendid  to  see  him  with  Farlane 
or  with  Bostil.  He  did  not  like  Lucy  very  well,  a  fact 
that  perhaps  accounted  for  Lucy's  antipathy.  For  that 
matter,  he  did  not  like  any  woman.  If  he  had  a  bad  trait, 
it  came  out  when  Van  rode  him,  but  all  the  riders,  and 
Bostil,  too,  claimed  that  Van  was  to  blame  for  that. 

"Thar,  I  reckon  them  stirrups  is  right,"  declared  Far- 
lane.  "Now,  Miss  Lucy,  hold  him  tight  till  he  wears 
off  thet  edge.  He  needs  work." 

Sage  King  would  not  kneel  for  Lucy  as  Sarchedon  did, 
and  he  was  too  high  for  her  to  mount  from  the  ground,  so 
she  mounted  from  a  rock.  She  took  to  the  road,  and  then 
the  first  trail  into  the  sage,  intending  to  trot  him  ten  or 
fifteen  miles  down  into  the  valley,  and  give  him  some 
fast,  warm  work  on  the  return. 

The  day  was  early  in  May  and  promised  to  grow  hot. 
There  was  not  a  cloud  in  the  blue  sky.  The  wind,  laden 
with  the  breath  of  sage,  blew  briskly  from  the  west.  All 

105 


WILDFIRE 

before  Lucy  lay  the  vast  valley,  gray  and  dusky  gray, 
then  blue,  then  purple  where  the  monuments  stood,  and, 
farther  still,  dark  ramparts  of  rock.  Lucy  had  a  habit  of 
dreaming  while  on  horseback,  a  habit  all  the  riders  had 
tried  to  break,  but  she  did  not  give  it  rein  while  she 
rode  Sarchedon,  and  assuredly  now,  up  on  the  King,  she 
never  forgot  him  for  an  instant.  He  shied  at  mocking 
birds  and  pack-rats  and  blowing  blossoms  and  even  at 
butterflies;  and  he  did  it,  Lucy  thought,  just  because  he 
was  full  of  mischief.  Sage  King  had  been  known  to  go 
steady  when  there  had  been  reason  to  shy.  He  did  not 
like  Lucy  and  he  chose  to  torment  her.  Finally  he  earned 
a  good  dig  from  a  spur,  and  then,  with  swift  pounding  of 
hoofs,  he  plunged  and  veered  and  danced  in  the  sage. 
Lucy  kept  her  temper,  which  was  what  most  riders  did 
not  do,  and  by  patience  and  firmness  pulled  Sage  King 
out  of  his  prancing  back  into  the  trail.  He  was  not  the 
least  cross-grained,  and,  having  had  his  little  spurt,  he 
settled  down  into  easy  going. 

In  an  hour  Lucy  was  ten  miles  or  more  from  home,  and 
farther  down  in  the  valley  than  she  had  ever  been.  In 
fact,  she  had  never  before  been  down  the  long  slope  to 
the  valley  floor.  How  changed  the  horizon  became! 
The  monuments  loomed  up  now,  dark,  sentinel-like,  and 
strange.  The  first  one,  a  great  red  rock,  seemed  to  her 
some  five  miles  away.  It  was  lofty,  straight-sided,  with 
a  green  slope  at  its  base.  And  beyond  that  the  other 
monuments  stretched  out  down  the  valley.  Lucy  de 
cided  to  ride  as  far  as  the  first  one  before  turning  back. 
Always  these  monuments  had  fascinated  her,  and  this 
was  her  opportunity  to  ride  near  one.  How  lofty  they 
were,  how  wonderfully  colored,  and  how  comely! 

Presently,  over  to  the  left,  where  the  monuments  were 
thicker,  and  gradually  merged  their  slopes  and  lines  and 
bulk  into  the  yellow  walls,  she  saw  low,  drifting  clouds  of 
smoke. 

"Well,  what's  that,  I  wonder?"  she  mused.  To  see 

106 


WILDFIRE 

smoke  on  the  horizon  in  that  direction  was  unusual, 
though  out  toward  Durango  the  grassy  benches  would 
often  burn  over.  And  these  low  clouds  of  smoke  resem 
bled  those  she  had  seen  before. 

"It's  a  long  way  off,"  she  added. 

So  she  kept  on,  now  and  then  gazing  at  the  smoke. 
As  she  grew  nearer  to  the  first  monument  she  was  sur 
prised,  then  amazed,  at  its  height  and  surpassing  size. 
It  was  mountain-high — a  grand  tower — smooth,  worn, 
glistening,  yellow  and  red.  The  trail  she  had  followed 
petered  out  in  a  deep  wash,  and  beyond  that  she  crossed 
no  more  trails.  The  sage  had  grown  meager  and  the 
greasewoods  stunted  and  dead;  and  cacti  appeared  on 
barren  places.  The  grass  had  not  failed,  but  it  was  not 
rich  grass  such  as  the  horses  and  cattle  grazed  upon  miles 
back  on  the  slope.  The  air  was  hot  down  here.  The 
breeze  was  heavy  and  smelled  of  fire,  and  the  sand  was 
blowing  here  and  there.  She  had  a  sense  of  the  bigness, 
the  openness  of  this  valley,  and  then  she  realized  its  wild- 
ness  and  strangeness.  These  lonely,  isolated  monuments 
made  the  place  different  from  any  she  had  visited.  They 
did  not  seem  mere  standing  rocks.  They  seemed  to  re 
treat  all  the  time  as  she  approached,  and  they  watched 
her.  They  interested  her,  made  her  curious.  What  had 
formed  all  these  strange  monuments?  Here  the  ground 
was  level  for  miles  and  miles,  to  slope  gently  up  to  the 
bases  of  these  huge  rocks.  In  an  old  book  she  had  seen 
pictures  of  the  Egyptian  pyramids,  but  these  appeared 
vaster,  higher,  and  stranger,  and  they  were  sheerly  per 
pendicular. 

Suddenly  Sage  King  halted  sharply,  shot  up  his  ears, 
and  whistled.  Lucy  was  startled.  That  from  the  King 
meant  something.  Hastily,  with  keen  glance  she  swept 
the  foreground.  A  mile  on,  near  the  monument,  was  a 
small  black  spot.  It  seemed  motionless.  But  the 
King's  whistle  had  proved  it  to  be  a  horse.  When  Lucy 
had  covered  a  quarter  of  the  intervening  distance  she 

107 


WILDFIRE 

could  distinguish  the  horse  and  that  there  appeared  some 
thing  strange  about  his  position.  Lucy  urged  Sage  King 
into  a  lope  and  soon  drew  nearer.  The  black  horse  had 
his  head  down,  yet  he  did  not  appear  to  be  grazing.  He 
was  as  still  as  a  statue.  He  stood  just  outside  a  clump 
of  greasewood  and  cactus. 

Suddenly  a  sound  pierced  the  stillness.  The  King 
jumped  and  snorted  in  fright.  For  an  instant  Lucy's 
blood  ran  cold,  for  it  was  a  horrible  cry.  Then  she  recog 
nized  it  as  the  neigh  of  a  horse  in  agony.  She  had  heard 
crippled  and  dying  horses  utter  that  long-drawn  and 
blood-curdling  neigh.  The  black  horse  had  not  moved, 
so  the  sound  could  not  have  come  from  him.  Lucy 
thought  Sage  King  acted  more  excited  than  the  occasion 
called  for.  Then  remembering  her  father's  warning,  she 
reined  in  on  top  of  a  little  knoll,  perhaps  a  hundred  yards 
from  where  the  black  horse  stood,  and  she  bent  her  keen 
gaze  forward. 

It  was  a  huge,  gaunt,  shaggy  black  horse  she  saw,  with 
the  saddle  farther  up  on  his  shoulders  than  it  should  have 
been.  He  stood  motionless,  as  if  utterly  exhausted.  His 
forelegs  were  braced,  so  that  he  leaned  slightly  back. 
Then  Lucy  saw  a  rope.  It  was  fast  to  the  saddle  and 
stretched  down  into  the  cactus.  There  was  no  other 
horse  in  sight,  nor  any  living  thing.  The  immense  monu 
ment  dominated  the  scene.  It  seemed  stupendous  to 
Lucy,  sublime,  almost  frightful. 

She  hesitated.  She  knew  there  was  another  horse, 
very  likely  at  the  other  end  of  that  lasso.  Probably  a 
rider  had  been  thrown,  perhaps  killed.  Certainly  a  horse 
had  been  hurt.  Then  on  the  moment  rang  out  the  same 
neigh  of  agony,  only  weaker  and  shorter.  Lucy  no 
longer  feared  an  ambush.  That  was  a  cry  which  could 
not  be  imitated  by  a  man  or  forced  from  a  horse.  There 
was  probably  death,  certainly  suffering,  near  at  hand. 
She  spurred  the  King  on. 

There  was  a  little  slope  to  descend,  a  wash  to  cross, 

108 


WILDFIRE 

a  bench  to  climb — and  then  she  rode  up  to  the  black 
horse.  Sage  King  needed  harder  treatment  than  Lucy 
had  ever  given  him. 

"What's  wrong  with  you?"  she  demanded,  pulling  him 
down.  Suddenly,  as  she  felt  him  tremble,  she  realized 
that  he  was  frightened.  "That's  funny!"  Then  when 
she  got  him  quiet  she  looked  around. 

The  black  horse  was  indeed  huge.  His  mane,  his 
shaggy  flanks,  were  lathered  as  if  he  had  been  smeared 
with  heavy  soap-suds.  He  raised  his  head  to  look  at  her. 
Lucy,  accustomed  to  horses  all  her  life,  saw  that  this  one 
welcomed  her  arrival.  But  he  was  almost  ready  to  drop. 

Two  taut  lassoes  stretched  from  the  pommel  of  his 
saddle  down  a  little  into  a  depression  full  of  brush  and 
cactus  and  rocks.  Then  Lucy  saw  a  red  horse.  He  was 
down  in  a  bad  position.  She  heard  his  low,  choking  heaves. 
Probably  he  had  broken  legs  or  back.  She  could  not  bear 
to  see  a  horse  in  pain.  She  would  do  what  was  possible, 
even  to  the  extent  of  putting  him  out  of  his  misery,  if 
nothing  else  could  be  done.  Yet  she  scanned  the  sur 
roundings  closely,  and  peered  into  the  bushes  and  behind 
the  rocks  before  she  tried  to  urge  Sage  King  closer.  He 
refused  to  go  nearer,  and  Lucy  dismounted. 

The  red  horse  was  partly  hidden  by  overbending 
brush.  He  had  plunged  into  a  hole  full  of  cactus.  There 
was  a  hackamore  round  his  nose  and  a  tight  noose  round 
his  neck.  The  one  round  his  neck  was  also  round  his 
forelegs.  And  both  lassoes  were  held  taut  by  the  black 
horse.  A  torn  and  soiled  rider's  scarf  hung  limp  round 
the  red  horse's  nose,  kept  from  falling  off  by  the  hacka 
more. 

"A  wild  horse,  a  stallion,  being  broken!"  exclaimed 
Lucy,  instantly  grasping  the  situation.  "Oh!  where's 
the  rider?" 

She  gazed  around,  ran  to  and  fro,  glanced  down  the 
little  slope,  and  beyond,  but  she  did  not  see  anything 
resembling  the  form  of  a  man.  Then  she  ran  back. 

109 


WILDFIRE 

Lucy  took  another  quick  look  at  the  red  stallion.  She 
did  not  believe  either  his  legs  or  back  were  hurt.  He 
was  just  played  out  and  tangled  and  tied  in  the  ropes, 
and  could  not  get  up.  The  shaggy  black  horse  stood  there 
braced  and  indomitable.  But  he,  likewise,  was  almost 
ready  to  drop.  Looking  at  the  condition  of  both  horses 
and  the  saddle  and  ropes,  Lucy  saw  what  a  fight  there 
had  been,  and  a  race!  Where  was  the  rider?  Thrown, 
surely,  and  back  on  the  trail,  perhaps  dead  or  maimed. 

Lucy  went  closer  to  the  stallion  so  that  she  could  al 
most  touch  him.  He  saw  her.  He  was  nearly  choked. 
Foam  and  blood  wheezed  out  with  his  heaves.  She  must 
do  something  quickly.  And  in  her  haste  she  pricked  her 
arms  and  shoulders  on  the  cactus. 

She  led  the  black  horse  closer  in,  letting  the  ropes  go 
slack.  The  black  seemed  as  glad  of  that  release  as  she 
was.  What  a  faithful  brute  he  looked!  Lucy  liked  his 
eyes. 

Then  she  edged  down  in  among  the  cactus  and  brush. 
The  red  horse  no  longer  lay  in  a  strained  position.  He 
could  lift  his  head.  Lucy  saw  that  the  noose  still  held 
tight  round  his  neck.  Fearlessly  she  jerked  it  loose. 
Then  she  back  away,  but  not  quite  out  of  his  reach.  He 
coughed  and  breathed  slowly,  with  great  heaves.  Then 
he  snorted. 

"You're  all  right  now,"  said  Lucy,  soothingly.  Slowly 
she  reached  a  hand  toward  his  head.  He  drew  it  back 
as  far  as  he  could.  She  stepped  around,  closer,  and  more 
back  of  him,  and  put  a  hand  on  him,  gently,  for  an  in 
stant.  Then  she  slipped  out  of  the  brush  and,  untying 
one  lasso  from  the  pommel,  she  returned  to  the  horse  and 
pulled  it  from  round  his  legs.  He  was  free  now,  except 
the  hackamore,  and  that  rope  was  slack.  Lucy  stood 
near  him,  watching  him,  talking  to  him,  waiting  for  him 
to  get  up.  She  could  not  be  sure  he  was  not  badly  hurt 
till  he  stood  up.  At  first  he  made  no  efforts  to  rise.  He 
watched  Lucy,  less  fearfully,  she  imagined.  And  she 

no 


WILDFIRE 

never  made  a  move.  She  wanted  him  to  see,  to  under 
stand  that  she  had  not  hurt  him  and  would  not  hurt 
him.  It  began  to  dawn  upon  her  that  he  was  magnificent. 

Finally,  with  a  long,  slow  heave  he  got  to  his  feet. 
Lucy  led  him  out  of  the  hole  to  open  ground.  She  seemed 
somehow  confident.  There  occurred  to  her  only  one  way 
to  act. 

"A  little  horse  sense,  as  Dad  would  say,"  she  solilo 
quized,  and  then,  when  she  got  him  out  of  the  brush,  she 
stood  thrilled  and  amazed. 

"Oh,  what  a  wild,  beautiful  horse!  What  a  giant! 
He's  bigger  than  the  King.  Oh,  if  Dad  could  see  him!" 

The  red  stallion  did  not  appear  to  be  hurt.  The  twitch 
ing  of  his  muscles  must  have  been  caused  by  the  cactus 
spikes  embedded  in  him.  There  were  drops  of  blood  all 
over  one  side.  Lucy  thought  she  dared  to  try  to  pull 
these  thorns  out.  She  had  never  in  her  life  been  afraid 
of  any  horse.  Farlane,  Holley,  all  the  riders,  and  her 
father,  too,  had  tried  to  make  her  realize  the  danger  in 
a  horse,  sooner  or  later.  But  Lucy  could  not  help  it; 
she  was  not  afraid;  she  believed  that  the  meanest  horse 
was  actuated  by  natural  fear  of  a  man;  she  was  not  a 
man  and  she  had  never  handled  a  horse  like  a  man.  This 
red  stallion  showed  hate  of  the  black  horse  and  the  rope 
that  connected  them;  he  showed  some  spirit  at  the  re 
peated  blasts  of  Sage  King.  But  he  showed  less  fear  of 
her. 

"He  has  been  a  proud,  wild  stallion,"  mused  Lucy. 
"And  he's  now  broken — terribly  broken — all  but  ruined." 

Then  she  walked  up  to  him  naturally  and  spoke  softly, 
and  reached  a  hand  for  his  shoulder. 

"  Whoa,  Reddy.  Whoa  now.  .  .  .  There.  That's  a  good 
fellow.  Why,  I  wouldn't  rope  you  or  hit  you.  I'm  only 
a  girl." 

He  drew  up,  made  a  single  effort  to  jump,  which  she 
prevented,  and  then  he  stood  quivering,  eying  her,  while 
she  talked  soothingly,  and  patted  him  and  looked  at  him 

in 


WILDFIRE 

in  the  way  she  had  found  infallible  with  most  horses. 
Lucy  believed  horses  were  like  people,  or  easier  to  get 
along  with.  Presently  she  gently  pulled  out  one  of  the 
cactus  spikes.  The  horse  flinched,  but  he  stood.  Lucy 
was  slow,  careful,  patient,  and  dexterous.  The  cactus 
needles  were  loose  and  easily  removed  or  brushed  off. 
At  length  she  got  him  free  of  them,  and  was  almost  as 
proud  as  she  was  glad.  The  horse  had  gradually  dropped 
his  head;  he  was  tired  and  his  spirit  was  broken. 

"Now,  what  shall  I  do?"  she  queried.  "I'll  take  the 
back  trail  of  these  horses.  They  certainly  hadn't  been 
here  long  before  I  saw  them.  And  the  rider  may  be 
close.  If  not  I'll  take  the  horses  home." 

She  slipped  the  noose  from  the  stallion's  head,  leaving 
the  hackamore,  and,  coiling  the  loose  lasso,  she  hung  it 
over  the  pommel  of  the  black's  saddle.  Then  she  took 
up  his  bridle. 

"Come  on,"  she  called. 

The  black  followed  her,  and  the  stallion,  still  fast  to 
him  by  the  lasso  Lucy  had  left  tied,  trooped  behind  with 
bowed  head.  Lucy  was  elated.  But  Sage  King  did  not 
like  the  matter  at  all.  Lucy  had  to  drop  the  black's 
bridle  and  catch  the  King,  and  then  ride  back  to  lead 
the  other  again. 

A  broad  trail  marked  the  way  the  two  horses  had 
come,  and  it  led  off  to  the  left,  toward  where  the  monu 
ments  were  thickest,  and  where  the  great  sections  of  wall 
stood,  broken  and  battlemented.  Lucy  was  hard  put 
to  it  to  hold  Sage  King,  but  the  horses  behind  plodded 
along.  The  black  horse  struck  Lucy  as  being  an  ugly, 
but  a  faithful  and  wonderful  animal.  He  understood 
everything.  Presently  she  tied  the  bridle  she  was  leading 
him  by  to  the  end  of  her  own  lasso,  and  thus  let  him  drop 
back  a  few  yards,  which  lessened  the  King's  fretting. 

Intent  on  the  trail,  Lucy  failed  to  note  time  or  distance 
till  the  looming  and  frowning  monuments  stood  aloft  be 
fore  her.  What  weird  effect  they  had !  Each  might  have 

112 


WILDFIRE 

been  a  colossal  statue  left  there  to  mark  the  work  of  the 
ages.  Lucy  realized  that  the  whole  vast  valley  had  once 
been  solid  rock,  just  like  the  monuments,  and  through  the 
millions  of  years  the  softer  parts  had  eroded  and  weathered 
and  blown  away — gone  with  the  great  sea  that  had  once 
been  there.  But  the  beauty,  the  solemnity,  the  majesty  of 
these  monuments  fascinated  her  most.  She  passed  the 
first  one,  a  huge  square  butte,  and  then  the  second,  a 
ragged,  thin,  double  shaft,  and  then  went  between  two 
much  alike,  reaching  skyward  in  the  shape  of  monstrous 
mittens.  She  watched  and  watched  them,  sparing  a 
moment  now  and  then  to  attend  to  the  trail.  She  noticed 
that  she  was  coming  into  a  region  of  grass,  and  faint  signs 
of  water  in  the  draws.  She  was  getting  high  again,  not 
many  miles  now  from  the  wall  of  rock. 

All  at  once  Sage  King  shied,  and  Lucy  looked  down  to 
see  a  man  lying  on  the  ground.  He  lay  inert.  But  his 
eyes  were  open — dark,  staring  eyes.  They  moved.  And 
he  called.  But  Lucy  could  not  understand  him. 

In  a  flash  she  leaped  off  the  King.  She  ran  to  the  pros 
trate  man — dropped  to  her  knees. 

"Oh!"  she  cried.  His  face  was  ghastly.  "Oh!  are 
you — you  badly  hurt?" 

"Lift  me — my  head,"  he  said,  faintly. 

She  raised  his  head.  What  a  strained,  passionate, 
terrible  gaze  he  bent  upon  the  horses. 

"Boy,  they're  mine — the  black  an'  the  red!"  he  cried. 

"They  surely  must  be,"  replied  Lucy.  "Oh!  tell  me. 
Are  you  hurt?" 

"Boy!  did  you  catch  them — fetch  them  back — look- 
in' for  me?" 

"I  sure  did." 

"You  caught — that  red  devil — an'  fetched  him — back 
to  me?"  went  on  the  wondering,  faint  voice.  "Boy — 
oh— boy!" 

He  lifted  a  long,  ragged  arm  and  pulled  Lucy  down. 
The  action  amazed  her  equally  as  his  passion  of  gratitude. 


WILDFIRE 

He  might  have  been  injured,  but  he  had  an  arm  of  iron. 
Lucy  was  powerless.  She  felt  her  face  against  his — and 
her  breast  against  his.  The  pounding  of  his  heart  was 
like  blows.  The  first  instant  she  wanted  to  laugh,  despite 
her  pity.  Then  the  powerful  arm — the  contact  affected 
her  as  nothing  ever  before.  Suppose  this  crippled  rider 
had  taken  her  for  a  boy —  She  was  not  a  boy!  She 
could  not  help  being  herself.  And  no  man  had  ever  put 
a  hand  on  her.  Consciousness  of  this  brought  shame  and 
anger.  She  struggled  so  violently  that  she  freed  herself. 
And  he  lay  back. 

"See  here — that's  no  way  to  act — to  hug — a  person," 
she  cried,  with  flaming  cheeks. 

"Boy,  I-" 

"I'm  not  a  boy.    I'm  a  girl." 

"What!" 

Lucy  tore  off  her  sombrero,  which  had  been  pulled  far 
forward,  and  this  revealed  her  face  fully,  and  her  hair 
came  tumbling  down.  The  rider  gazed,  stupefied.  Then 
a  faint  tinge  of  red  colored  his  ghastly  cheeks. 

"A  girl!  .  .  .  Why — why  'scuse  me,  miss.  I — I  took 
you — for  a  boy." 

He  seemed  so  astounded,  he  looked  so  ashamed,  so 
scared,  and  withal,  so  haggard  and  weak,  that  Lucy  im 
mediately  recovered  her  equanimity. 

"Sure  I'm  a  girl.  But  that's  no  matter.  .  .  .  You've 
been  thrown.  Are  you  hurt?" 

He  smiled  a  weak  assent. 

"Badly?"  she  queried.  She  did  not  like  the  way  he 
lay — so  limp,  so  motionless. 

"I'm  afraid  so.     I  can't  move." 

"Oh!...  What  shall  I  do?" 

"Can  you — get  me  water?"  he  whispered,  with  dry  lips. 

Lucy  flew  to  her  horse  to  get  the  small  canteen  she 
always  carried.  But  that  had  been  left  on  her  saddle, 
and  she  had  ridden  Van's.  Then  she  gazed  around. 
The  wash  she  had  crossed  several  times  ran  near  where 

114 


WILDFIRE 

the  rider  lay.  Green  grass  and  willows  bordered  it. 
She  ran  down  and,  hurrying  along,  searched  for  water. 
There  was  water  in  places,  yet  she  had  to  go  a  long  way 
before  she  found  water  that  was  drinkable.  Filling  her 
sombrero,  she  hurried  back  to  the  side  of  the  rider.  It 
was  difficult  to  give  him  a  drink. 

"Thanks,  miss,"  he  said,  gratefully.  His  voice  was 
stronger  and  less  hoarse. 

"Have  you  any  broken  bones?"  asked  Lucy. 

"I  don't  know.     I  can't  feel  much." 

"Are  you  in  pain?" 

" Hardly.     I  feel  sort  of  thick." 

Lucy,  being  an  intelligent  girl,  born  in  the  desert  and 
used  to  its  needs,  had  not  often  encountered  a  situation 
with  which  she  was  unable  to  cope. 

"Let  me  feel  if  you  have  any  broken  bones.  .  .  .  That 
arm  isn't  broken,  I'm  positive." 

The  rider  smiled  faintly  again.  How  he  stared  with 
his  strained,  dark  eyes !  His  face  showed  ghastly  through 
the  thin,  soft  beard  and  the  tan.  Lucy  found  his  right 
arm  badly  bruised,  but  not  broken.  She  made  sure  his 
collar-bones  and  shoulder-blades  were  intact.  Broken 
ribs  were  harder  to  locate;  still,  as  he  did  not  feel  pain 
from  pressure,  she  concluded  there  were  no  fractures 
there.  With  her  assistance  he  moved  his  legs,  proving 
no  broken  bones  there. 

"I'm  afraid  it's  my — spine,"  he  said. 

"But  you  raised  your  head  once,"  she  replied.  "If 
your  back  was — was  broken  or  injured  you  couldn't  raise 
your  head." 

"So  I  couldn't.  I  guess  I'm  just  knocked  out.  I  was 
— pretty  weak  before  Wildfire  knocked  me — off  Nagger." 

"Wildfire?" 

"That's  the  red  stallion's  name." 

"Oh,  he's  named  already?" 

"I  named  him — long  ago.  He's  known  on  many  a 
range." 

9  115 


WILDFIRE 

"Where?" 

"I  think  far  north  of  here.  I — trailed  him — days — 
weeks — months.  We  crossed  the  great  canon — " 

44 The  Grand  Canon?" 

"It  must  be  that." 

"The  Grand  Canon  is  down  there,"  said  Lucy,  pointing. 
"I  live  on  it.  ...  You've  come  a  long  way." 

"Hundreds  of  miles!  .  .  .  Oh,  the  ground  I  covered — 
that  awful  canon  country! . .  .  But  I  stayed  with  Wildfire. 
An'  I  put  a  rope  on  him.  An'  he  got  away.  .  .  .  An*  it 
was  a  boy — no — a  girl  who — saved  him  for  me — an' 
maybe  saved  my  life,  too!" 

Lucy  looked  away  from  the  dark,  staring  eyes.  A  light 
in  them  confused  her. 

* '  Never  mind  me.  You  say  you  were  weak  ?  Have  you 
been  ill?" 

"No,  miss.  Just  starved.  ...  I  starved  on  Wildfire's 
trail." 

Lucy  ran  to  her  saddle  and  got  the  biscuits  out  of  the 
pockets  of  her  coat,  and  she  ran  back  to  the  rider. 

"Here.  I  never  thought.  Oh,  you've  had  a  hard 
time  of  it!  I  understand.  That  wonderful  flame  of  a 
horse!  I'd  have  stayed,  too.  My  father  was  a  rider 
once.  Bostil.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  him?" 

"Bostil.  The  name— I've  heard."  Then  the  rider 
lay  thinking,  as  he  munched  a  biscuit.  "Yes,  I  remem 
ber,  but  it  was  long  ago.  I  spent  a  night  with  a  wagon- 
train,  a  camp  of  many  men  and  women,  religious  people, 
working  into  Utah.  Bostil  had  a  boat  at  the  crossing 
of  the  Fathers." 

"Yes,  they  called  the  Ferry  that." 

"I  remember  well  now.  They  said  Bostil  couldn't 
count  his  horses — that  he  was  a  rich  man,  hard  on  riders — 
an'  he'd  used  a  gun  more  than  once." 

Lucy  bowed  her  head.     "Yes,  that's  my  dad." 

The  rider  did  not  seem  to  see  how  he  had  hurt  her. 

"Here  we  are  talking — wasting  time,"  she  said.  "I 
116 


WILDFIRE 

must  start  home.    You  can't  be  moved.    What  shall  I 
do?" 

"That's  for  you  to  say,  Bostil's  daughter." 

"My  name's  Lucy,"  replied  the  girl,  blushing  painfully. 
"I  mean  I'll  be  glad  to  do  anything  you  think  best." 

"You're  very  good." 

Then  he  turned  his  face  away.  Lucy  looked  closely 
at  him.  He  was  indeed  a  beggared  rider.  His  clothes 
and  his  boots  hung  in  tatters.  He  had  no  hat,  no  coat, 
no  vest.  His  gaunt  face  bore  traces  of  what  might 
have  been  a  fine,  strong  comeliness,  but  now  it  was  only 
thin,  worn,  wan,  pitiful,  with  that  look  which  always 
went  to  a  woman's  heart.  He  had  the  look  of  a  homeless 
rider.  Lucy  had  seen  a  few  of  his  wandering  type,  and 
his  story  was  so  plain.  But  he  seemed  to  have  a  touch 
of  pride,  and  this  quickened  her  interest. 

"Then  I'll  do  what  I  think  best  for  you,"  said  Lucy. 

First  she  unsaddled  the  black  Nagger.  With  the  saddle 
she  made  a  pillow  for  the  rider's  head,  and  she  covered 
him  with  the  saddle  blanket.  Before  she  had  finished  this 
task  he  turned  his  eyes  upon  her.  And  Lucy  felt  she 
would  be  haunted.  Was  he  badly  hurt,  after  all?  It 
seemed  probable.  How  strange  he  was! 

"I'll  water  the  horses — then  tie  Wildfire  here  on  a 
double  rope.  There's  grass." 

"But  you  can't  lead  him,"  replied  the  rider. 

"He'll  follow  me." 

"That  red  devil!"     The  rider  shuddered  as  he  spoke. 

Lucy  had  some  faint  inkling  of  what  a  terrible  fight 
that  had  been  between  man  and  horse.  "Yes;  when  I 
found  him  he  was  broken.  Look  at  him  now." 

But  the  rider  did  not  appear  to  want  to  see  the  stal 
lion.  He  gazed  up  at  Lucy,  and  she  saw  something  in 
his  eyes  that  made  her  think  of  a  child.  She  left  him, 
had  no  trouble  in  watering  the  horses,  and  haltered  Wild 
fire  among  the  willows  on  a  patch  of  grass.  Then  she 
returned. 

117 


WILDFIRE 

"1*11  go  now,"  she  said  to  the  rider. 

"Where?" 

"Home.  I'll  come  back  to-morrow,  early,  and  bring 
some  one  to  help  you — " 

"Girl,  if  you  want  to  help  me  more — bring  me  some 
bread  an'  meat.  Don't  tell  any  one.  Look  what  a  raga 
muffin  I  am.  .  .  .  An'  there's  Wildfire.  I  don't  want  him 
seen  till  I'm — on  my  feet  again.  I  know  riders.  .  .  . 
That's  all. .  If  you  want  to  be  so  good — come." 

"I'll  come,"  replied  Lucy,  simply. 

"Thank  you.  I  owe  you — a  lot.  .  .  .  What  did  you  say 
your  name  was?" 

"Lucy— Lucy  Bostil." 

"Oh,  I  forgot.  .  .  .  Are  you  sure  you  tied  Wildfire  good 
an'  tight?" 

"Yes,  I'm  sure.  I'll  go  now.  I  hope  you'll  be  better 
to-morrow." 

Lucy  hesitated,  with  her  hand  on  the  King's  bridle. 
She  did  not  like  to  leave  this  young  man  lying  there 
helpless  on  the  desert.  But  what  else  could  she  do? 
What  a  strange  adventure  had  befallen  her!  At  the 
following  thought  that  it  was  not  yet  concluded  she  felt 
a  little  stir  of  excitement  at  her  pulses.  She  was  so 
strangely  preoccupied  that  she  forgot  it  was  necessary 
for  her  to  have  a  step  to  mount  Sage  King.  She  realized 
it  quickly  enough  when  she  attempted  it.  Then  she 
led  him  off  in  the  sage  till  she  found  a  rock.  Mounting, 
she  turned  him  straight  across  country,  meaning  to  cut 
out  miles  of  travel  that  would  have  been  necessary  along 
her  back-trail.  Once  she  looked  back.  The  rider  was 
not  visible;  the  black  horse,  Nagger,  was  out  of  sight, 
but  Wildfire,  blazing  in  the  sun,  watched  her  depart. 


CHAPTER  IX 

T  UCY  BOSTIL  could  not  control  the  glow  of  sfcrange 
I—/  excitement  under  which  she  labored,  but  she  could 
put  her  mind  on  the  riding  of  Sage  King.  She  did  not 
realize,  however,  that  she  was  riding  him  under  tfce  stress 
and  spell  of  that  excitement. 

She  had  headed  out  to  make  a  short  cut,  fairly  sure  of 
her  direction,  yet  she  was  not  unaware  of  the  fact  that 
she  would  be  lost  till  she  ran  across  her  trail.  That 
might  be  easy  to  miss  and  time  was  flying.  She  put  the 
King  to  a  brisk  trot,  winding  through  the  aisles  of  the  sage. 

Soon  she  had  left  the  monument  region  and  was  down 
on  the  valley  floor  again.  From  time  to  time  she  con 
quered  a  desire  to  look  back.  Presently  she  was  sur 
prised  and  very  glad  to  ride  into  a  trail  where  she  saw 
the  tracks  she  had  made  coming  out.  With  much  relief 
she  turned  Sage  King  into  this  trail,  and  then  any  anxiety 
she  had  felt  left  her  entirely.  But  that  did  not  mitigate 
her  excitement.  She  eased  the  King  into  a  long,  swinging 
lope.  And  as  he  warmed  to  the  work  she  was  aroused 
also.  It  was  hard  to  hold  him  in,  once  he  got  out  of  a 
trot,  and  after  miles  and  miles  of  this,  when  she  thought 
best  to  slow  down  he  nearly  pulled  her  arms  off.  Still 
she  finally  got  him  in  hand.  Then  followed  miles  of  soft 
and  rough  going,  which  seemed  long  and  tedious.  Be 
yond  that  was  the  home  stretch  up  the  valley,  whose 
gradual  slope  could  be  seen  only  at  a  distance.  Here 
was  a  straight,  broad  trail,  not  too  soft  nor  too  hard,' 
and  for  all  the  years  she  could  remember  riders  had  tried 
out  and  trained  their  favorites  on  that  course. 

119 


WILDFIRE 

Lucy  reached  down  to  assure  herself  that  the  cinch 
was  tight,  then  she  pulled  her  sombrero  down  hard, 
slackened  the  bridle,  and  let  the  King  go.  He  simply 
broke  his  gait,  he  was  so  surprised.  Lucy  saw  him  trying 
to  look  back  at  her,  as  if  he  could  not  realize  that  this 
young  woman  rider  had  given  him  a  free  rein.  Perhaps 
one  reason  he  disliked  her  had  been  always  and  everlast 
ingly  that  tight  rein.  Like  the  wary  horse  he  was  he 
took  to  a  canter,  to  try  out  what  his  new  freedom 
meant. 

"Say,  what's  the  matter  with  you?"  called  Lucy,  dis 
dainfully.  "Are  you  lazy?  Or  don't  you  believe  I  can 
ride  you?" 

Whereupon  she  dug  him  with  her  spurs.  Sage  King 
snorted.  His  action  shifted  marvelously.  Thunder  rolled 
from  under  his  hoofs,  And  he  broke  out  of  that  clattering 
roar  into  his  fleet  stride,  where  his  hoof-beats  were  swift, 
regular,  rhythmic. 

Lucy  rode  him  with  teeth  and  fists  clenched,  bending 
low.  After  all,  she  thought,  it  was  no  trick  to  ride  him. 
In  that  gait  he  was  dangerous,  for  a  fall  meant  death; 
but  he  ran  so  smoothly  that  riding  him  was  easy  and  cer 
tainly  glorious.  He  went  so  fast  that  the  wind  blinded 
her.  The  trail  was  only  a  white  streak  in  blurred  gray. 
She  could  not  get  her  breath;  the  wind  seemed  to  whip 
the  air  away  from  her.  And  then  she  felt  the  lessening 
of  the  tremendous  pace.  Sage  King  had  run  himself 
out  and  the  miles  were  behind  her.  Gradually  her  sight 
became  clear,  and  as  the  hot  and  wet  horse  slowed  down, 
satisfied  with  his  wild  run,  Lucy  realized  that  she  was  up 
on  the  slope  only  a  few  miles  from  home.  Suddenly  she 
thought  she  saw  something  dark  stir  behind  a  sage-bush 
just  ahead.  Before  she  could  move  a  hand  at  the  bridle 
Sage  King  leaped  with  a  frantic  snort.  It  was  a  swerving, 
nimble,  tremendous  bound.  He  went  high.  Lucy  was 
unseated,  but  somehow  clung  on,  and  came  down  with 
him,  finding  the  saddle.  And  it  seemed,  while  in  the  air, 

120 


WILDFIRE 

she  saw  a  long,  snaky,  whipping  loop  of  rope  shoot  out 
and  close  just  where  Sage  King's  legs  had  been. 

She  screamed.  The  horse  broke  and  ran.  Lucy,  right 
ing  herself,  looked  back  to  see  Joel  Creech  holding  a  limp 
lasso.  He  had  tried  to  rope  the  King. 

The  blood  of  her  father  was  aroused  in  Lucy.  She 
thought  of  the  horse — not  herself.  If  the  King  had  not 
been  so  keen-sighted,  so  swift,  he  would  have  gone  down 
with  a  broken  leg.  Lucy  never  in  her  life  had  been  so 
furious. 

Joel  shook  his  fist  at  her  and  yelled,  "I'd  'a'  got  you — 
on  any  other  hoss!" 

She  did  not  reply,  though  she  had  to  fight  herself  to 
keep  from  pulling  her  gun  and  shooting  at  him.  She 
guided  the  running  horse  back  into  the  trail,  rapidly 
leaving  Creech  out  of  sight. 

"He's  gone  crazy,  that's  sure,"  said  Lucy.  "And  he 
means  me  harm!" 

She  ran  the  King  clear  up  to  the  corrals,  and  he  was 
still  going  hard  when  she  turned  down  the  lane  to  the 
barns.  Then  she  pulled  him  in. 

Farlane  was  there  to  meet  her.  She  saw  no  other 
riders  and  was  glad. 

"Wai,  Miss  Lucy,  the  King  sure  looks  good,"  said 
Farlane,  as  she  jumped  off  and  flung  him  the  bridle. 
"He's  just  had  about  right,  judgin'.  .  .  .  Say,  girl,  you're 
all  pale!  Oh,  say,  you  wasn't  scared  of  the  King, 
now?" 

"No,"  replied  Lucy,  panting. 

"Wai,  what's  up,  then?"  The  rider  spoke  in  an  en 
tirely  different  voice,  and  into  his  clear,  hazel  eyes  a 
little  dark  gleam  shot. 

"Joel  Creech  waylaid  me  out  in  the  sage — and — and 
tried  to  catch  me."  Lucy  checked  herself.  It  might  not 
do  to  tell  how  Joel  had  tried  to  catch  her. 

"  He  did?  An'  you  on  the  King !"  Farlane  laughed,  as  if 
relieved.  "Wai,  he's  tried  thet  before.  Miss  Lucy.  But 

121 


WILDFIRE 

when  you  was  up  on  the  gray — thet  shows  Joel's  crazy, 
sure." 

' '  He  sure  is.     Farlane,  I — I  am  mad !" 

"Wai,  cool  off,  Miss  Lucy.  It  ain't  nothin'  to  git  set 
up  about.  An*  don't  tell  the  old  man." 

"Why  not?"  demanded  Lucy. 

"Wai,  because  he's  in  a  queer  sort  of  bad  mood  lately. 
It  wouldn't  be  safe.  He  hates  them  Creeches.  So 
don't  tell  him." 

"All  right,  Farlane,  I  won't.  Don't  you  tell,  either," 
replied  Lucy,  soberly. 

"Sure  I'll  keep  mum.  But  if  Joel  doesn't  watch  out 
I'll  put  a  crimp  in  him  myself." 

Lucy  hurried  away  down  the  lane  and  entered  the 
house  without  meeting  any  one.  In  her  room  she  changed 
her  clothes  and  lay  down  to  rest  and  think. 

Strangely  enough,  Lucy  might  never  have  encountered 
Joel  Creech  out  in  the  sage,  for  all  the  thought  she  gave 
him.  Her  mind  was  busy  with  the  crippled  rider.  Who 
was  he?  Where  was  he  from?  What  strange  passion  he 
had  shown  over  the  recovery  of  that  wonderful  red  horse ! 
Lucy  could  not  forget  the  feeling  of  his  iron  arm  when 
he  held  her  in  a  kind  of  frenzied  gratitude.  A  wild  upland 
rider,  living  only  for  a  wild  horse !  How  like  Indians  some 
of  these  riders !  Yet  this  fellow  had  seemed  different  from 
most  of  the  uncouth  riders  she  had  known.  He  spoke 
better.  He  appeared  to  have  had  some  little  schooling. 
Lucy  did  not  realize  that  she  was  interested  in  him.  She 
thought  she  was  sorry  for  him  and  interested  in  the  stal 
lion.  She  began  to  compare  Wildfire  with  Sage  King, 
and  if  she  remembered  rightly  Wildfire,  even  in  his  di 
sheveled  state,  had  appeared  a  worthy  rival  of  the  King. 
What  would  Bostil  say  at  sight  of  that  flame-colored 
stallion?  Lucy  thrilled. 

Later  she  left  her  room  to  see  if  the  hour  was  oppor 
tune  for  her  plan  to  make  up  a  pack  of  supplies  for  the 
rider.  Her  aunt  was  busy  in  the  kitchen,  and  Bostil 

122 


WILDFIRE 

had  not  come  in.  Lucy  took  advantage  of  the  moment 
to  tie  up  a  pack  and  carry  it  to  her  room.  Somehow  the 
task  pleased  her.  She  recalled  the  lean  face  of  the  rider. 
And  that  recalled  his  ragged  appearance.  Why  not  pack 
up  an  outfit  of  clothes?  Bostil  had  a  stock-room  full  of 
such  accessories  for  his  men.  Then  Lucy,  glowing  with 
the  thought,  hurried  to  Bostil's  stock-room,  and  with 
deft  hands  and  swift  judgment  selected  an  outfit  for  the 
rider,  even  down  to  a  comb  and  razor.  All  this  she  car 
ried  quickly  to  her  room,  where  in  her  thoughtfulness 
she  added  a  bit  of  glass  from  a  broken  mirror,  and  soap 
and  a  towel.  Then  she  tied  up  a  second  pack. 

Bostil  did  not  come  home  to  supper,  a  circumstance 
that  made  Lucy's  aunt  cross.  They  ate  alone,  and, 
waiting  awhile,  were  rather  late  in  clearing  away  the 
table.  After  this  Lucy  had  her  chance  in  the  dusk  of 
early  evening,  and  she  carried  both  packs  way  out  into 
the  sage  and  left  them  near  the  trail. 

"Hope  a  coyote  doesn't  come  along,"  she  said.  That 
possibility,  however,  did  not  worry  her  as  much  as  getting 
those  packs  up  on  the  King.  How  in  the  world  would 
she  ever  do  it  ? 

She  hurried  back  to  the  house,  stealthily  keeping  to 
the  shadow  of  the  cottonwoods,  for  she  would  have  faced 
an  embarrassing  situation  if  she  had  met  her  father, 
even  had  he  been  in  a  good  humor.  And  she  reached  the 
sitting-room  unobserved.  The  lamps  had  been  lighted 
and  a  log  blazed  on  the  hearth.  She  was  reading  when 
Bostil  entered. 

"Hello,  Lucy!"  he  said. 

He  looked  tired,  and  Lucy  knew  he  had  been  drinking, 
because  when  he  had  been  he  never  offered  to  kiss  her.  The 
strange,  somber  shade  was  still  on  his  face,  but  it  brightened 
somewhat  at  sight  of  her.  Lucy  greeted  him  as  always. 

"Farlane  tells  me  you  handled  the  King  great — bet 
ter 'n  Van  has  worked  him  lately,"  said  Bostil.  "But 
don't  tell  him  I  told  you." 

123 


WILDFIRE 

That  was  sweet  praise  from  Farlane.  "Oh,  Dad,  it 
could  hardly  be  true,"  expostulated  Lucy.  "Both  you 
and  Farlane  are  a  little  sore  at  Van  now." 

"I'm  a  lot  sore,"  replied  Bostil,  gruffly. 

"Anyway,  how  did  Farlane  know  how  I  handled  Sage 
King?"  queried  Lucy. 

"Wai,  every  hair  on  a  hoss  talks  to  Farlane,  so  Holley 
says.  .  .  .  Lucy,  you  take  the  King  out  every  day  for  a 
while.  Ride  him  now  an'  watch  out!  Joel  Creech  was 
in  the  village  to-day.  He  sure  sneaked  when  he  seen 
me.  He's  up  to  some  mischief." 

Lucy  did  not  want  to  lie  and  she  did  not  know  what 
to  say.  Presently  Bostil  bade  her  good  night.  Lucy 
endeavored  to  read,  but  her  mind  continually  wandered 
back  to  the  adventure  of  the  day. 

Next  morning  she  had  difficulty  in  concealing  her  im 
patience,  but  luck  favored  her.  Bostil  was  not  in  evi 
dence,  and  Farlane,  for  once,  could  spare  no  more  time 
than  it  took  to  saddle  Sage  King.  Lucy  rode  out  into 
the  sage,  pretty  sure  that  no  one  watched  her. 

She  had  hidden  the  packs  near  the  tallest  bunch  of 
greasewood  along  the  trail;  and  when  she  halted  behind 
it  she  had  no  fear  of  being  seen  from  the  corrals.  She 
got  the  packs.  The  light  one  was  not  hard  to  tie  back  of 
the  saddle,  but  the  large  one  was  a  very  different  matter. 
She  decided  to  carry  it  in  front.  There  was  a  good-sized 
rock  near,  upon  which  she  stepped,  leading  Sage  King 
alongside;  and  after  an  exceedingly  trying  moment 
she  got  up,  holding  the  pack.  For  a  wonder  Sage  King 
behaved  well. 

Then  she  started  off,  holding  the  pack  across  her  lap, 
and  she  tried  the  King's  several  gaits  to  see  which  one 
would  lend  itself  more  comfortably  to  the  task  before 
her.  The  trouble  was  that  Sage  King  had  no  slow  gait, 
even  his  walk  was  fast.  And  Lucy  was  compelled  to 
hold  him  into  that.  She  wanted  to  hurry,  but  that  seemed 

124 


WILDFIRE 

out  of  the  question.  She  tried  to  keep  from  gazing 
out  toward  the  monuments,  because  they  were  so  far 
away. 

How  would  she  find  the  crippled  rider  ?  It  flashed  into 
her  mind  that  she  might  find  him  dead,  and  this  seemed 
horrible.  But  her  common  sense  persuaded  her  that  she 
would  find  him  alive  and  better.  The  pack  was  hard  to 
hold,  and  Sage  King  fretted  at  the  monotonous  walk. 
The  hours  dragged.  The  sun  grew  hot.  And  it  was  noon, 
almost,  when  she  reached  the  point  where  she  cut  off 
the  trail  to  the  left.  Thereafter,  with  the  monuments 
standing  ever  higher,  and  the  distance  perceptibly  lessen 
ing,  the  minutes  passed  less  tediously. 

At  length  she  reached  the  zone  of  lofty  rocks,  and  found 
them  different,  how,  she  could  not  tell.  She  rode  down 
among  them,  and  was  glad  when  she  saw  the  huge  mittens 
— her  landmarks.  At  last  she  espied  the  green-bordered 
wash  and  the  few  cedar-trees.  Then  a  horse  blazed  red 
against  the  sage  and  another  shone  black.  That  sight 
made  Lucy  thrill.  She  rode  on,  eager  now,  but  moved 
by  the  strangeness  of  the  experience. 

Before  she  got  quite  close  to  the  cedars  she  saw  a  man. 
He  took  a  few  slow  steps  out  of  the  shade.  His  back  was 
bent.  Lucy  recognized  the  rider,  and  in  her  gladness  to 
see  him  on  his  feet  she  cried  out.  Then,  when  Sage  King 
reached  the  spot,  Lucy  rolled  the  pack  off  to  the  ground. 

"Oh,  that  was  a  job!"  she  cried. 

The  rider  looked  up  with  eyes  that  seemed  keener, 
less  staring  than  she  remembered.  "You  came?  ...  I 
was  afraid  you  wouldn't,"  he  said. 

"Sure  I  came.  .  .  .  You're  better— not  badly  hurt?"  she 
said,  gravely.  "I — I'm  so  glad." 

"I've  got  a  crimp  in  my  back,  that's  all." 

Lucy  was  quick  to  see  that  after  the  first  glance  at  her 
he  was  all  eyes  for  Sage  King.  She  laughed.  How  like 
a  rider!  She  watched  him,  knowing  that  presently  he 
would  realize  what  a  horse  she  was  riding.  She  slipped 

125 


WILDFIRE 

off  and  threw  the  bridle,  and  then,  swiftly  untying  the 
second  pack,  she  laid  it  down. 

The  rider,  with  slow,  painful  steps  and  bent  back,  ap 
proached  Sage  King  and  put  a  lean,  strong,  brown  hand 
on  him,  and  touched  him  as  if  he  wished  to  feel  if  he  were 
real.  Then  he  whistled  softly.  When  he  turned  to  Lucy 
his  eyes  shone  with  a  beautiful  light. 

"It's  Sage  King,  Bostil's  favorite,"  said  Lucy. 

"Sage  King ! ...  He  looks  it. ...  But  never  a  wild  horse?" 

"No." 

"A  fine  horse,"  replied  the  rider.  "Of  course  he  can 
run?"  This  last  held  a  note  of  a  rider's  jealousy. 

Lucy  laughed.  ' '  Run ! .  .  .  The  King  is  Bostil's  favorite. 
He  can  run  away  from  any  horse  in  the  uplands." 

"I'll  bet  you  Wildfire  can  beat  him,"  replied  the  rider, 
with  a  dark  glance. 

"Come  on!"  cried  Lucy,  daringly. 

Then  the  rider  and  girl  looked  more  earnestly  at  each 
other.  He  smiled  in  a  way  that  changed  his  face — 
brightened  out  the  set  hardness. 

"I  reckon  I'll  have  to  crawl,"  he  said,  ruefully.  "But 
maybe  I  can  ride  in  a  few  days — if  you'll  come  back  again." 

His  remark  brought  to  Lucy  the  idea  that  of  course  she 
would  hardly  see  this  rider  again  after  to-day.  Even  if 
he  went  to  the  Ford,  which  event  was  unlikely,  he  would 
not  remain  there  long.  The  sensation  of  blankness  puz 
zled  her,  and  she  felt  an  unfamiliar  confusion. 

"I — I've  brought  you — some  things,"  she  said,  point 
ing  to  the  larger  pack. 

' '  Grub,  you  mean  ? ' ' 

"No." 

"That  was  all  I  asked  you  for,  miss,"  he  said,  some 
what  stiffly. 

"  Yes,  but — I — I  thought — "  Lucy  became  unaccount 
ably  embarrassed.  Suppose  this  strange  rider  would  be  of 
fended.  "  Your  clothes  were — so  torn.  .  .  .  And  no  wonder 
you  were  thrown — in  those  boots! ...  So  I  thought  I'd — " 

126 


WILDFIRE 

"You  thought  I  needed  clothes  as  bad  as  grub,"  he  said, 
bitterly.  "I  reckon  that's  so." 

His  look,  more  than  his  tone,  cut  Lucy;  and  involun 
tarily  she  touched  his  arm.  "Oh,  you  won't  refuse  to 
take  them!  Please  don't!" 

At  her  touch  a  warmth  came  into  his  face.  "Take 
them?  I  should  smile  I  will." 

He  tried  to  reach  down  to  lift  the  pack,  but  as  it  was 
obviously  painful  for  him  to  bend,  Lucy  intercepted  him. 

"But  you've  had  no  breakfast,"  she  protested.  "Why 
not  eat  before  you  open  that  pack?" 

"Nope.  I'm  not  hungry.  .  .  .  Maybe  I'll  eat  a  little, 
after  I  dress  up."  He  started  to  walk  away,  then  turned. 
"Miss  Bostil,  have  you  been  so  good  to  every  wanderin' 
rider  you  happened  to  run  across?" 

"Good!"  she  exclaimed,  flushing.  She  droppod  her 
eyes  before  his.  "Nonsense.  .  .  .  Anyway,  you're  the  first 
wandering  rider  I  ever  met — like  this." 

"Well,  you're  good,"  he  replied,  with  emotion.  Then 
he  walked  away  with  slow,  stiff  steps  and  disappeared 
behind  the  willows  in  the  little  hollow. 

Lucy  uncoiled  the  rope  on  her  saddle  and  haltered  Sage 
King  on  the  best  grass  near  at  hand.  Then  she  opened 
the  pack  of  supplies,  thinking  the  while  that  she  must 
not  tarry  here  long. 

"But  on  the  King  I  can  run  back  like  the  wind,"  she 
mused. 

The  pack  contained  dried  fruits  and  meat  and  staples, 
also  an  assortment  of  good  things  to  eat  that  were  of  a 
perishable  nature,  already  much  the  worse  for  the  long 
ride.  She  spread  all  this  out  in  the  shade  of  a  cedar. 
The  utensils  were  few — two  cups,  two  pans,  and  a  tiny 
pot.  She  gathered  wood,  and  arranged  it  for  a  fire,  so 
that  the  rider  could  start  it  as  soon  as  he  came  back. 
He  seemed  long  in  coming.  Lucy  waited,  yet  still  he  did 
not  return.  Finally  she  thought  of  the  red  stallion,  and 
started  off  down  the  wash  to  take  a  look  at  him.  He  was 

127 


WILDFIRE 

grazing.  He  had  lost  some  of  the  dirt  and  dust  and  the 
bedraggled  appearance.  When  he  caught  sight  of  her  he 
lifted  his  head  high  and  whistled.  How  wild  he  looked! 
And  his  whistle  was  shrill,  clear,  strong.  Both  the  other 
horses  answered  it.  Lucy  went  on  closer  to  Wildfire. 
She  was  fascinated  now. 

"If  he  doesn't  know  me!"  she  cried.  Never  had  she 
been  so  pleased.  She  had  expected  every  sign  of  savage- 
ness  on  his  part,  and  certainly  had  not  intended  to  go 
near  him.  But  Wildfire  did  not  show  fear  or  hate  in 
his  recognition.  Lucy  went  directly  to  him  and  got  a 
hand  on  him.  Wildfire  reared  a  little  and  shook  a  little, 
but  this  disappeared  presently  under  her  touch.  He  held 
his  head  very  high  and  watched  her  with  wonderful  eyes. 
Gradually  she  drew  his  head  down.  Standing  before  him, 
she  carefully  and  slowly  changed  the  set  of  the  hacka- 
more,  which  had  made  a  welt  on  his  nose.  It  seemed  to 
have  been  her  good  fortune  that  every  significant  move 
she  had  made  around  this  stallion  had  been  to  mitigate  his 
pain.  Lucy  believed  he  knew  this  as  well  as  she  knew  it. 
Her  theory,  an  often  disputed  one,  was  that  horses  were 
as  intelligent  as  human  beings  and  had  just  the  same 
fears,  likes,  and  dislikes.  Lucy  knew  she  was  safe  when 
she  untied  the  lasso  from  the  strong,  root  where  she  had 
fastened  it,  and  led  the  stallion  down  the  wash  to  a  pool 
of  water.  And  she  stood  beside  him  with  a  hand  on  his 
shoulder  while  he  bent  his  head  to  sniff  at  the  water.  He 
tasted  it,  plainly  with  disgust.  It  was  stagnant  water, 
full  of  vermin.  But  finally  he  drank.  Lucy  led  him 
up  the  wash  to  another  likely  place,  and  tied  him 
securely. 

When  she  got  back  to  the  camp  in  the  cedars  the  rider 
was  there,  on  his  knees,  kindling  the  fire.  His  clean- 
shaved  face  and  new  apparel  made  him  vastly  different. 
He  was  young,  and,  had  he  not  been  so  gaunt,  he  would 
have  been  fine-looking,  Lucy  thought. 

" Wildfire  remembered  me,"  Lucy  burst  out.  "He 

128 


WILDFIRE 

wasn't  a  bit  scary.  Let  me  handle  him.  Followed  me  to 
water." 

"He's  taken  to  you,"  replied  the  rider,  seriously. 
"I've  heard  of  the  like,  but  not  so  quick.  Was  he  in  a 
bad  fix  when  you  got  to  him  yesterday?" 

Lucy  explained  briefly. 

"Aha!  ...  If  that  red  devil  has  any  love  in  him  I'll 
never  get  it.  I  wish  I  could  have  done  so  much  for  him. 
But  always  when  he  sees  me  he'll  remember." 

Lucy  saw  that  the  rider  was  in  difficulties.  He  could 
not  bend  his  back,  and  evidently  it  pained  him  to  try. 
His  brow  was  moist. 

"Let  me  do  that,"  she  said. 

"Thanks.  It  took  about  all  my  strength  to  get  into 
this  new  outfit,"  he  said,  relinquishing  his  place  to  Lucy. 

When  she  looked  up  from  her  task,  presently,  he  was 
sitting  in  the  shade  of  the  cedar,  watching  her.  He  had 
the  expression  of  a  man  who  hardly  believed  what  he 
saw. 

"Did  you  have  any  trouble  gettin'  away,  without  tell- 
in' — about  me?"  he  asked. 

"No.  But  I  sure  had  a  job  with  those  packs,"  she  re 
plied. 

"You  must  be  a  wonder  with  a  horse." 

As  far  as  vanity  was  concerned  Lucy  had  only  one 
weakness — and  he  had  touched  upon  it. 

"Well,  Dad  and  Holley  and  Farlane  argue  much  about 
me.  Still,  I  guess  they  all  agree  I  can  ride." 

"Holley  an'  Farlane  are  riders?"  he  questioned. 

"Yes,  Dad's  right-hand  men." 

"Your  dad  hires  many  riders,  I  suppose?" 

"Sure  I  never  heard  of  him  turning  any  rider  down, 
at  least  not  without  a  try." 

"I  wonder  if  he  would  give  me  a  job?" 

Lucy  glanced  up  quickly.  The  idea  surprised  her — 
pleased  her.  "In  a  minute,"  she  replied.  "And  he'd  be 
grand  to  you.  You  see,  he'd  have  an  eye  for  Wildfire." 

I2Q 


WILDFIRE 

The  rider  nodded  his  head  as  if  he  understood  how  that 
would  be. 

"And  of  course  you'd  never  sell  nor  trade  Wildfire?" 
went  on  Lucy. 

The  rider's  smile  was  sad,  but  it  was  conclusive. 

"Then  you'd  better  stay  away  from  Bostil,"  returned 
Lucy,  shortly. 

He  remained  silent,  and  Lucy,  busy  about  the  camp- 
fire,  did  not  speak  again  till  the  simple  fare  was  ready. 
Then  she  spread  a  tarpaulin  in  the  shade. 

"I'm  pretty  hungry  myself,"  she  said.  "But  I  don't 
suppose  I  know  what  hunger  is." 

"After  a  while  a  fellow  loses  the  feelin'  of  hunger,"  he 
replied.  "I  reckon  it  '11  come  back  quick.  .  .  .  This  all 
looks  good." 

So  they  began  to  eat.  Lucy's  excitement,  her  sense 
of  the  unreality  of  this  adventure,  in  no  wise  impaired  her 
appetite.  She  seemed  acutely  sensitive  to  the  perceptions 
of  the  moment.  The  shade  of  the  cedars  was  cool.  And 
out  on  the  desert  she  could  see  the  dark  smoky  veils  of 
heat  lifting.  The  breeze  carried  a  dry  odor  of  sand  and 
grass.  She  heard  bees  humming  by.  And  all  around 
the  great  isolated  monuments  stood  up,  red  tops  against 
the  blue  sky.  It  was  a  silent,  dreaming,  impressive  place, 
where  she  felt  unlike  herself. 

"I  mustn't  stay  long,"  she  said,  suddenly  remem 
bering. 

"Will  you  come  back — again?"  he  asked. 

The  question  startled  Lucy.  "Why— I— I  don't  know. 
.  .  .  Won't  you  ride  in  to  the  Ford  just  as  soon  as  you're 
able?" 

"I  reckon  not." 

"But  it's  the  only  place  where  there's  people  in  hun 
dreds  of  miles.  Surely  you  won't  try  to  go  back — the 
way  you  came?" 

"When  Wildfire  left  that  country  I  left  it.  We  can't 
go  back." 

130 


WILDFIRE 

"Then  you've  no  people — no  one  you  care  for?"  she 
asked,  in  sweet  seriousness. 

"There's  no  one.  I'm  an  orphan.  My  people  were 
lost  in  an  Indian  massacre — with  a  wagon-train  crossin' 
Wyomin'.  A  few  escaped,  an'  I  was  one  of  the  youngsters. 
I  had  a  tough  time,  like  a  stray  dog,  till  I  grew  up.  An' 
then  I  took  to  the  desert." 

" Oh,  I  see.  I— I'm  sorry,"  replied  Lucy.  "But  that's 
not  very  different  from  my  dad's  story,  of  his  early  years. 
.  .  .  What  will  you  do  now?" 

"  I'll  stay  here  till  my  back  straightens  out.  .  .  .  Will  you 
ride  out  again?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Lucy,  without  looking  at  him;  and  she 
wondered  if  it  were  really  she  who  was  speaking. 

Then  he  asked  her  about  the  Ford,  and  Bostil,  and  the 
ranches  and  villages  north,  and  the  riders  and  horses. 
Lucy  told  him  everything  she  knew  and  could  think  of, 
and,  lastly,  after  waxing  eloquent  on  the  horses  of  the 
uplands,  particularly  Bostil's,  she  gave  him  a  graphic 
account  of  Cordts  and  Dick  Sears. 

"Horse-thieves!"  exclaimed  the  rider,  darkly.  There 
was  a  grimness  as  well  as  fear  in  his  tone.  "I've  heard 
of  Sears,  but  not  Cordts.  Where  does  this  band  hang 
out?" 

"  No  one  knows.  Holley  says  they  hide  up  in  the  canon 
country.  None  of  the  riders  have  ever  tried  to  track 
them  far.  It  would  be  useless.  Holley  says  there  are 
plateaus  of  rich  grass  and  great  forests.  The  Ute  Indians 
say  that  much,  too.  But  we  know  little  about  the  wild 
country." 

"Aren't  there  any  hunters  at  Bostil's  Ford?" 

"Wild-horse  hunters,  you  mean?" 

"No.     Bear  an'  deer  hunters." 

"There's  none.  And  I  suppose  that's  why  we're  not 
familiar  with  the  wild  canon  country.  I'd  like  to  ride 
in  there  sometime  and  camp.  But  our  people  don't  go 
in  for  that.  They  love  the  open  ranges.  No  one  I 

10  131 


WILDFIRE 

know,  except  a  half-witted  boy,  ever  rode  down  among 
these  monuments.  And  how  wonderful  a  place !  It  can't 
be  more  than  twenty  miles  from  home. ...  I  must  be  going 
soon.  I'm  forgetting  Sage  King.  Did  I  tell  you  I  was 
training  him  for  the  races?" 

"No,  you  didn't.  What  races?  Tell  me,"  he  replied, 
with  keen  interest. 

Then  Lucy  told  him  about  the  great  passion  of  her 
father — about  the  long,  time-honored  custom  of  free-for- 
all  races,  and  the  great  races  that  had  been  run  in  the 
past;  about  the  Creeches  and  their  swift  horses;  about 
the  rivalry  and  speculation  and  betting;  and  lastly  about 
the  races  to  be  run  in  a  few  weeks — races  so  wonderful  in 
prospect  that  even  the  horse-thief,  Cordts,  had  begged 
to  be  allowed  to  attend. 

''I'm  going  to  see  the  King  beat  Creech's  roan,"  shouted 
the  rider,  with  red  in  his  cheeks  and  a  flash  in  his  eye. 

His  enthusiasm  warmed  Lucy's  interest,  yet  it  made  her 
thoughtful.  Ideas  flashed  into  her  mind.  If  the  rider 
attended  the  races  he  would  have  that  fleet  stallion  with 
him.  He  could  not  be  separated  from  the  horse  that  had 
cost  him  so  dearly.  What  would  Bostil  and  Holley  and 
Farlane  say  at  sight  of  Wildfire?  Suppose  Wildfire  was 
to  enter  the  races!  It  was  probable  that  he  could  run 
away  from  the  whole  field — even  beat  the  King.  Lucy 
thrilled  and  thrilled.  What  a  surprise  it  would  be!  She 
had  the  rider's  true  love  of  seeing  the  unheralded  horse 
win  over  the  favorite.  She  had  for  years  wanted  to  see 
a  horse — and  ride  a  horse — out  in  front  of  Sage  King. 
Then  suddenly  all  these  flashing  ideas  coruscated  seem 
ingly  into  a  gleam — a  leaping,  radiant,  wonderful  thought. 
Irresistibly  it  burst  from  her. 

"Let  me  ride  your  Wildfire  in  the  great,  race?"  she 
cried,  breathlessly. 

His  response  was  instantaneous — a  smile  that  was  keen 
and  sweet  and  strong,  and  a  proffered  hand.  Impulsively 
Lucy  clasped  that  hand  with  both  hers. 

132 


OH,   IF  I  COULD  RIDE  WILDFIRE  AGAINST  THE  FIELD  IN  THAT 
RACE.    ...    IF    I    ONLY   COULD !" 


WILDFIRE 

"You  don't  mean  it,"  she  said.  "Oh,  it's  what  Auntie 
would  call  one  of  my  wild  dreams!  .  .  .  And  I'm  growing 
up — they  say.  .  .  .  But —  Oh,  if  I  could  ride  Wildfire 
against  the  field  in  that  race.  .  .  .  // 1  only  could!'1 

She  was  on  fire  with  the  hope,  flushing,  tingling.  She 
was  unconscious  of  her  effect  upon  the  rider,  who  gazed 
at  her  with  a  new-born  light  in  his  eyes. 

"You  can  ride  him.  I  reckon  I'd  like  to  see  that  race 
just  as  much  as  Bostil  or  Cordts  or  any  man.  .  .  .  An' 
see  here,  girl,  Wildfire  can  beat  this  gray  racer  of  your 
father's." 

"Oh!"  cried  Lucy. 

"Wildfire  can  beat  the  King,"  repeated  the  rider,  in 
tensely.  "The  tame  horse  doesn't  step  on  this  earth 
that  can  run  with  Wildfire.  He's  a  stallion.  He  has 
been  a  killer  of  horses.  It's  in  him  to  kill.  If  he  ran 
a  race  it  would  be  that  instinct  in  him." 

"How  can  we  plan  it?"  went  on  Lucy,  impulsively. 
She  had  forgotten  to  withdraw  her  hands  from  his.  "It 
must  be  a  surprise — a  complete  surprise.  If  you  came 
to  the  Ford  we  couldn't  keep  it  secret.  And  Dad  or 
Farlane  would  prevent  me,  somehow." 

"It's  easy.  Ride  out  here  as  often  as  you  can.  Bring 
a  light  saddle  an'  let  me  put  you  up  on  Wildfire.  You'll 
run  him,  train  him,  get  him  in  shape.  Then  the  day 
of  the  races  or  the  night  before  I'll  go  in  an'  hide  out  in 
the  sage  till  you  come  or  send  for  Wildfire." 

"Oh,  it  '11  be  glorious,"  she  cried,  with  eyes  like  stars. 
"I  know  just  where  to  have  you  hide.  A  pile  of  rocks 
near  the  racecourse.  There's  a  spring  and  good  grass. 
I  could  ride  out  to  you  just  before  the  big  race,  and  we'd 
come  back,  with  me  on  Wildfire.  The  crowd  always 
stays  down  at  the  end  of  the  racecourse.  Only  the 

starters  stay  out  there Oh,  I  can  see  Bostil  when  that 

red  stallion  runs  into  sight!" 

"Well,  is  it  settled?"  queried  the  rider,  strangely. 

Lucy  was  startled  into  self-consciousness  by  his  tone. 

133 


WILDFIRE 

How  strangely  he  must  have  felt.  And  his  eyes  were 
piercing. 

"You  mean — that  I  ride  Wildfire?"  she  replied,  shyly. 
"Yes,  if  you'll  let  me." 

'Til  be  proud." 

"You're  very  good.  .  .  .  And  do  you  think  Wildfire  can 
beat  the  King?" 

"I  know  it." 

"How  do  you?" 

"I've  seen  both  horses." 

"But  it  will  be  a  grand  race." 

"I  reckon  so.  It's  likely  to  be  the  grandest  ever  seen. 
But  Wildfire  will  win  because  he's  run  wild  all  his  life — 
an'  run  to  kill  other  horses.  . . .  The  only  question  is — can 
you  ride  him?" 

"Yes.  I  never  saw  the  horse  I  couldn't  ride.  Bostil 
says  there  are  some  I  can't  ride.  Farlane  says  not. 
Only  two  horses  have  thrown  me,  the  King  and  Sarchedon. 
But  that  was  before  they  knew  me.  And  I  was  sort  of 
wild.  I  can  make  your  Wildfire  love  me." 

"  That's  the  last  part  of  it  I'd  ever  doubt,"  replied  the 
rider.  "It's  settled,  then.  I'll  camp  here.  I'll  be  well 
in  a  few  days.  Then  I'll  take  Wildfire  in  hand.  You 
will  ride  out  whenever  you  have  a  chance,  without  bein' 
seen.  An'  the  two  of  us  will  train  the  stallion  to  upset 
that  race." 

"Yes— then— it's  settled." 

Lucy's  gaze  was  impelled  and  held  by  the  rider's. 
Why  was  he  so  pale?  But  then  he  had  been  injured — 
weakened.  This  compact  between  them  had  somehow 
changed  their  relation.  She  seemed  to  have  known  him 
long. 

"What's  your  name?"  she  asked. 

"Lin  Slone,"  replied  the  rider. 

Then  she  released  her  hands.  "I  must  ride  in  now. 
If  this  isn't  a  dream  I'll  come  back  soon."  She  led  Sage 
King  to  a  rock  and  mounted  him. 


WILDFIRE 

"It's  good  to  see  you  up  there,"  said  Slone.  "An*  that 
splendid  horse!  .  .  .  He  knows  what  he  is.  It  '11  break 
Bostil's  heart  to  see  that  horse  beat." 

"  Dad  11  feel  bad,  but  it  '11  do  him  good,"  replied  Lucy. 

That  was  the  old  rider's  ruthless  spirit  speaking  out 
of  his  daughter's  lips. 

Slone  went  close  to  the  King  and,  putting  a  hand  on 
the  pommel,  he  looked  up  at  Lucy.  "Maybe — it  is — a 
dream — an'  you  won't  come  back,"  he  said,  with  un 
steady  voice. 

"Then  I'll  come  in  dreams,"  she  flashed.  "Be  careful 
of  yourself.  .  .  .  Good-by." 

And  at  a  touch  the  impatient  King  was  off.  From  far 
up  the  slope  near  a  monument  Lucy  looked  back.  Slone 
was  watching  her.  She  waved  a  gauntleted  hand — and 
then  looked  back  no  more. 


CHAPTER  X 

TWO  weeks  slipped  by  on  the  wings  of  time  and  op 
portunity  and  achievement,  all  colored  so  wonder 
fully  for  Lucy,  all  spelling  that  adventure  for  which  she 
had  yearned. 

Lucy  was  riding  down  into  the  sage  toward  the  monu 
ments  with  a  whole  day  before  her.  Bostil  kept  more 
and  more  to  himself,  a  circumstance  that  worried  her, 
though  she  thought  little  about  it.  Van  had  taken  up 
the  training  of  the  King;  and  Lucy  had  deliberately 
quarreled  with  him  so  that  she  would  be  free  to  ride 
where  she  listed.  Farlane  nagged  her  occasionally  about 
her  rides  into  the  sage,  insisting  that  she  must  not  go  so 
far  and  stay  so  long.  And  after  Van's  return  to  work 
he  made  her  ride  Sarchedon. 

Things  had  happened  at  the  Ford  which  would  have 
concerned  Lucy  greatly  had  she  not  been  over-excited 
about  her  own  affairs.  Some  one  had  ambushed  Bostil 
in  the  cottonwoods  near  his  house  and  had  shot  at  him, 
narrowly  missing  him.  Bostil  had  sworn  he  recognized 
the  shot  as  having  come  from  a  rifle,  and  that  he  knew 
to  whom  it  belonged.  The  riders  did  not  believe  this, 
and  said  some  boy,  shooting  at  a  rabbit  or  coyote,  had  been 
afraid  to  confess  he  had  nearly  hit  Bostil.  The  riders  all 
said  Bostil  was  not  wholly  himself  of  late.  The  river 
was  still  low.  The  boat  had  not  been  repaired.  And 
Creech's  horses  were  still  on  the  other  side. 

These  things  concerned  Lucy,  yet  they  only  came  and 
went  swiftly  through  her  mind.  She  was  obsessed  by 
things  intimately  concerning  herself. 

136 


WILDFIRE 

"Oh,  I  oughtn't  to  go,"  she  said,  aloud.  But  she  did 
not  even  check  Sarchedon's  long  swing,  his  rocking-chair 
lope.  She  had  said  a  hundred  times  that  she  ought  not 
go  again  out  to  the  monuments.  For  Lin  Slone  had 
fallen  despairingly,  terribly  in  love  with  her. 

It  was  not  this,  she  averred,  but  the  monuments  and  the 
beautiful  Wildfire  that  had  woven  a  spell  round  her  she 
could  not  break.  She  had  ridden  Wildfire  all  through 
that  strange  region  of  monuments  and  now  they  claimed 
something  of  her.  Just  as  wonderful  was  Wildfire's  love 
for  her.  The  great  stallion  hated  Slone  and  loved  Lucy. 
Of  all  the  remarkable  circumstances  she  had  seen  or 
heard  about  a  horse,  this  fact  was  the  most  striking.  She 
could  do  anything  with  him.  All  that  savageness  and 
wildness  disappeared  when  she  approached  him.  He 
came  at  her  call.  He  whistled  at  sight  of  her.  He  sent 
out  a  ringing  blast  of  disapproval  when  she  rode  away. 
Every  day  he  tried  to  bite  or  kick  Slone,  but  he  was  meek 
under  Lucy's  touch. 

But  this  morning  there  came  to  Lucy  the  first  vague 
doubt  of  herself.  Once  entering  her  mind,  that  doubt 
became  clear.  And  then  she  vowed  she  liked  Slone  as 
she  might  a  brother.  And  something  within  her  accused 
her  own  conviction.  The  conviction  was  her  real  self, 
and  the  accusation  was  some  other  girl  lately  born 
in  her.  Lucy  did  not  like  this  new  person.  She  was 
afraid  of  her.  She  would  not  think  of  her  unless  she 
had  to. 

"  I  never  cared  for  him — that  way,"  she  said,  aloud. 
"I  don't— I  couldn't— ever— 1—1— love  Lin  Slone!" 

The  spoken  thought — the  sound  of  the  words  played 
havoc  with  Lucy's  self-conscious  calmness.  She  burned. 
She  trembled.  She  was  in  a  rage  with  herself.  She 
spurred  Sarchedon  into  a  run  and  tore  through  the  sage, 
down  into  the  valley,  running  him  harder  than  she  should 
have  run  him.  Then  she  checked  him,  and,  penitent, 
petted  him  out  of  all  proportion  to  her  thoughtlessness. 

137 


WILDFIRE 

The  violent  exercise  only  heated  her  blood  and,  if  any 
thing,  increased  this  sudden  and  new  torment.  Why  had 
she  discarded  her  boy's  rider  outfit  and  chaps  for  a 
riding-habit  made  by  her  aunt,  and  one  she  had  scorned 
to  wear  ?  Some  awful,  accusing  voice  thundered  in  Lucy's 
burning  ears  that  she  had  done  this  because  she  was 
ashamed  to  face  Lin  Slone  any  more  in  that  costume — 
she  wanted  to  appear  different  in  his  eyes,  to  look  like  a 
girl.  If  that  shameful  suspicion  was  a  fact  why  was  it — 
what  did  it  mean?  She  could  not  tell,  yet  she  was  afraid 
of  the  truth. 

All  of  a  sudden  Lin  Slone  stood  out  clearer  in  her  mental 
vision — the  finest  type  of  a  rider  she  had  ever  known — a 
strong,  lithe,  magnificent  horseman,  whose  gentleness 
showed  his  love  for  horses,  whose  roughness  showed  his 
power — a  strange,  intense,  lonely  man  in  whom  she  had 
brought  out  pride,  gratitude,  kindness,  passion,  and 
despair.  She  felt  her  heart  swell  at  the  realization  that 
she  had  changed  him,  made  him  kinder,  made  him 
divide  his  love  as  did  her  father,  made  him  human,  hope 
ful,  longing  for  a  future  unfettered  by  the  toils  of  desert 
allurement.  She  could  not  control  her  pride.  She  must 
like  him  very  much.  She  confessed  that,  honestly,  with 
out  a  qualm.  It  was  only  bewildering  moments  of  strange 
agitation  and  uncertainty  that  bothered  her.  She  had 
refused  to  be  concerned  by  them  until  they  had  finally 
impinged  upon  her  peace  of  mind.  Then  they  accused 
her;  now  she  accused  herself.  She  ought  not  go  to  meet 
Lin  Slone  any  more. 

"But  then — the  race!"  she  murmured.  "I  couldn't 
give  that  up.  .  .  .  And  oh!  I'm  afraid  the  harm  is  done! 
What  can  I  do?" 

After  the  race — what  then?  To  be  sure,  all  of  Bostil's 
Ford  would  know  she  had  been  meeting  Slone  out  in  the 
sage,  training  his  horse.  What  would  people  say? 

"Dad  will  simply  be  radiant,  */  he  can  buy  Wildfire — 
and  a  fiend  if  he  can't,"  she  muttered. 

138 


WILDFIRE 

Lucy  saw  that  her  own  impulsiveness  had  amounted 
to  daring.  She  had  gone  too  far.  She  excused  that — for 
she  had  a  rider's  blood — she  was  Bostil's  girl.  But  she 
had,  in  her  wildness  and  joy  and  spirit,  spent  many  hours 
alone  with  a  rider,  to  his  undoing.  She  could  not  excuse 
that.  She  was  ashamed.  What  would  he  say  when  she 
told  him  she  could  see  him  no  more?  The  thought 
made  her  weak.  He  would  accept  and  go  his  way — back 
to  that  lonely  desert,  with  only  a  horse. 

"Wildfire  doesn't  love  him!"  she  said. 

And  the  scarlet  fired  her  neck  and  cheek  and  temple. 
That  leap  of  blood  seemed  to  release  a  riot  of  emotions. 
What  had  been  a  torment  became  a  torture.  She  turned 
Sarchedon  homeward,  but  scarcely  had  faced  that  way 
when  she  wheeled  him  again.  She  rode  slowly  and  she 
rode  swiftly.  The  former  was  hateful  because  it  held  her 
back — from  what  she  no  longer  dared  think;  the  latter 
was  fearful  because  it  hurried  her  on  swiftly,  irresistibly 
to  her  fate. 

Lin  Slone  had  changed  his  camp  and  had  chosen  a 
pass  high  up  where  the  great  walls  had  begun  to  break 
into  sections.  Here  there  was  intimacy  with  the  sheer 
cliffs  of  red  and  yellow.  Wide  avenues  between  the  walls 
opened  on  all  points  of  the  compass,  and  that  one  to  the 
north  appeared  to  be  a  gateway  down  into  the  valley  of 
monuments.  The  monuments  trooped  down  into  the 
valley  to  spread  out  and  grow  isolated  in  the  distance. 
Slone's  camp  was  in  a  clump  of  cedars  surrounding  a 
spring.  There  was  grass  and  white  sage  where  rabbits 
darted  in  and  out. 

Lucy  did  not  approach  this  camp  from  that  round 
about  trail  which  she  had  made  upon  the  first  occasion 
of  her  visiting  Slone.  He  had  found  an  opening  in  the 
wall,  and  by  riding  this  way  into  the  pass  Lucy  cut  off 
miles.  In  fact,  the  camp  was  not  over  fifteen  miles  from 
Bostil's  Ford.  It  was  so  close  that  Lucy  was  worried 


WILDFIRE 

lest  some  horse-tracker  should  stumble  on  the  trail  and 
follow  her  up  into  the  pass. 

This  morning  she  espied  Slone  at  his  outlook  on  a  high 
rock  that  had  fallen  from  the  great  walls.  She  always 
looked  to  see  if  he  was  there,  and  she  always  saw  him. 
The  days  she  had  not  come,  which  were  few,  he  had 
spent  watching  for  her  there.  His  tasks  were  not  many, 
and  he  said  he  had  nothing  to  do  but  wait  for  her.  Lucy 
had  a  persistent  and  remorseful,  yet  sweet  memory  of 
Slone  at  his  lonely  lookout.  Here  was  a  fine,  strong, 
splendid  young  man  who  had  nothing  to  do  but  watch 
for  her — a  waste  of  precious  hours! 

She  waved  her  hand  from  afar,  and  he  waved  in  reply. 
Then  as  she  reached  the  cedared  part  of  the  pass  Slone 
was  no  longer  visible.  She  put  Sarchedon  to  a  run  up 
the  hard,  wind-swept  sand,  and  reached  the  camp  before 
Slone  had  climbed  down  from  his  perch. 

Lucy  dismounted  reluctantly.  What  would  he  say 
about  the  riding-habit  that  she  wore?  She  felt  very 
curious  to  learn,  and  shyer  than  ever  before,  and  alto 
gether  different.  The  skirt  made  her  more  of  a  girl,  it 
seemed. 

" Hello,  Lin!"  she  called.  There  was  nothing  in  her 
usual  greeting  to  betray  the  state  of  her  mind. 

"Good  mornin' — Lucy,"  he  replied,  very  slowly.  He 
was  looking  at  her,  she  thought,  with  different  eyes.  And 
he  seemed  changed,  too,  though  he  had  long  been  well, 
and  his  tall,  lithe  rider's  form,  his  lean,  strong  face,  and 
his  dark  eyes  were  admirable  in  her  sight.  Only  this 
morning,  all  because  she  had  worn  a  girl's  riding-skirt 
instead  of  boy's  chaps,  everything  seemed  different.  Per 
haps  her  aunt  had  been  right,  after  all,  and  now  things 
were  natural. 

Slone  gazed  so  long  at  her  that  Lucy  could  not  keep 
silent.  She  laughed. 

"How  do  you  like — me — in  this?" 

"I  like  you  much  better,"  Slone  said,  bluntly. 

140 


WILDFIRE 

"Auntie  made  this — and  she's  been  trying  to  get  me 
to  ride  in  it." 

"It  changes  you,  Lucy.  .  .  .  But  can  you  ride  as  well?" 

"I'm  afraid  not.  .  .  .  What's  Wildfire  going  to  think 
of  me?" 

"He'll  like  you  better,  too.  .  .  .  Lucy,  how's  the  King 
cornin'  on?" 

"Lin,  I'll  tell  you,  if  I  wasn't  as  crazy  about  Wildfire 
as  you  are,  I'd  say  he'll  have  to  kill  himself  to  beat  the 
King,"  replied  Lucy,  with  gravity. 

"Sometimes  I  doubt,  too,"  said  Slone.  "But  I  only 
have  to  look  at  Wildfire  to  get  back  my  nerve.  .  .  .  Lucy, 
that  will  be  the  grandest  race  ever  run!" 

"Yes,"  sighed  Lucy. 

"What's  wrong?    Don't  you  want  Wildfire  to  win?" 

"Yes  and  no.  But  I'm  going  to  beat  the  King,  any 
way.  .  .  .  Bring  on  your  Wildfire!" 

Lucy  unsaddled  Sarchedon  and  turned  him  loose  to 
graze  while  Slone  went  out  after  Wildfire.  And  present 
ly  it  appeared  that  Lucy  might  have  some  little  time  to 
wait.  Wildfire  had  lately  been  trusted  to  hobbles,  which 
fact  made  it  likely  that  he  had  strayed. 

Lucy  gazed  about  her  at  the  great  looming  red  walls 
and  out  through  the  avenues  to  the  gray  desert  beyond. 
This  adventure  of  hers  would  soon  have  an  end,  for  the 
day  of  the  races  was  not  far  distant,  and  after  that  it  was 
obvious  she  would  not  have  occasion  to  meet  Slone.  To 
think  of  never  coming  to  the  pass  again  gave  Lucy 
a  pang.  Unconsciously  she  meant  that  she  would  never 
ride  up  here  again,  because  Slone  would  not  be  here. 
A  wind  always  blew  through  the  pass,  and  that  was 
why  the  sand  was  so  clean  and  hard.  To-day  it  was  a 
pleasant  wind,  not  hot,  nor  laden  with  dust,  and  some 
how  musical  in  the  cedars.  The  blue  smoke  from  Slone's 
fire  curled  away  and  floated  out  of  sight.  It  was  lonely, 
with  the  haunting  presence  of  the  broken  walls  ever  mani 
fest.  But  the  loneliness  seemed  full  of  content.  She  no 

141 


WILDFIRE 

longer  wondered  at  Slone's  desert  life.  That  might  be 
well  for  a  young  man,  during  those  years  when  adven 
ture  and  daring  called  him,  but  she  doubted  that  it  would 
be  well  for  all  of  a  man's  life.  And  only  a  little  of  it 
ought  to  be  known  by  a  woman.  She  saw  how  the  wild- 
ness  and  loneliness  and  brooding  of  such  a  life  would 
prevent  a  woman's  development.  Yet  she  loved  it  all 
and  wanted  to  live  near  it,  so  that  when  the  need  pressed 
her  she  could  ride  out  into  the  great  open  stretches  and 
see  the  dark  monuments  grow  nearer  and  nearer,  till  she 
was  under  them,  in  the  silent  and  colored  shadows. 

Slone  returned  presently  with  Wildfire.  The  stallion 
shone  like  a  flame  in  the  sunlight.  His  fear  and  hatred 
of  Slone  showed  in  the  way  he  obeyed.  Slone  had  mas 
tered  him,  and  must  always  keep  the  upper  hand  of  him. 
It  had  from  the  first  been  a  fight  between  man  and 
beast,  and  Lucy  believed  it  would  always  be  so. 

But  Wildfire  was  a  different  horse  when  he  saw  Lucy. 
Day  by  day  evidently  Slone  loved  him  more  and  tried 
harder  to  win  a  little  of  what  Wildfire  showed  at  sight  of 
Lucy.  Still  Slone  was  proud  of  Lucy's  control  over  the 
stallion.  He  was  just  as  much  heart  and  soul  bent  on 
winning  the  great  race  as  Lucy  was.  She  had  ridden 
Wildfire  bareback  at  first,  and  then  they  had  broken 
him  to  the  saddle. 

It  was  serious  business,  that  training  of  Wildfire,  and 
Slone  had  peculiar  ideas  regarding  it.  Lucy  rode  him 
up  and  down  the  pass  until  he  was  warm.  Then  Slone 
got  on  Sarchedon.  Wildfire  always  snorted  and  showed 
fight  at  sight  of  Sage  King  or  Nagger,  and  the  stallion 
Sarchedon  infuriated  him  because  Sarchedon  showed 
fight,  too.  Slone  started  out  ahead  of  Lucy,  and  then 
they  raced  down  the  long  pass.  The  course  was  hard- 
packed  sand.  Fast  as  Sarchedon  was,  and  matchless  as 
a  horseman  as  was  Slone,  the  race  was  over  almost  as  soon 
as  it  began.  Wildfire  ran  indeed  like  fire  before  the  wind. 
He  wanted  to  run,  and  the  other  horse  made  him  fierce. 

142 


WILDFIRE 

Like  a  burr  Lucy  stuck  low  over  his  neck,  a  part  of  the 
horse,  and  so  light  he  would  not  have  known  he  was 
carrying  her  but  for  the  repeated  calls  in  his  ears.  Lucy 
never  spurred  him.  She  absolutely  refused  to  use  spurs 
on  him.  This  day  she  ran  away  from  Slone,  and,  turning 
at  the  end  of  the  two-mile  course  they  had  marked  out, 
she  loped  Wildfire  back.  Slone  turned  with  her,  and 
they  were  soon  in  camp. 

Lucy  did  not  jump  off.  She  was  in  a  transport.  Every 
race  kindled  a  mounting  fire  in  her.  She  was  scarlet  of 
face,  out  of  breath,  her  hair  flying.  And  she  lay  on  Wild 
fire's  neck  and  hugged  him  and  caressed  him  and  talked 
to  him  in  low  tones  of  love. 

Slone  dismounted  and  got  Sarchedon  out  of  the  way, 
then  crossed  to  where  Lucy  still  fondled  Wildfire.  He 
paused  a  moment  to  look  at  her,  but  when  she  saw  him 
he  started  again,  and  came  close  up  to  her  as  she  sat  the 
saddle. 

"  You  went  past  me  like  a  bullet,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  can't  he  run!"  murmured  Lucy. 

"Could  he  beat  the  King  to-day?" 

Slone  had  asked  that  question  every  day,  more  than 
once. 

"Yes,  he  could — to-day.  I  know  it,"  replied  Lucy. 
"Oh — I  get  so — so  excited.  I — I  make  a  fool  of  myself — 
over  him.  But  to  ride  him — going  like  that — Lin!  it's 
just  glorious!" 

"You  sure  can  ride  him,"  replied  Slone.  "I  can't  see 
a  fault  anywhere — in  him — or  in  your  handling  him.  He 
never  breaks.  He  goes  hard,  but  he  saves  something.  He 
gets  mad — fierce — all  the  time,  yet  he  wants  to  go  your 
way.  Lucy,  I  never  saw  the  like  of  it.  Somehow  you 
an'  Wildfire  make  a  combination.  You  can't  be  beat." 

"Do  I  ride  him— well?"  she  asked,  softly. 

"7  could  never  ride  him  so  well." 

"Oh,  Lin — you  just  want  to  please  me.  Why,  Van 
couldn't  ride  with  you." 

143 


WILDFIRE 

"I  don't  care,  Lucy,"  replied  Slone,  stoutly.  "You 
rode  this  horse  perfect.  I've  found  fault  with  you  on  the 
King,  on  your  mustangs,  an'  on  this  black  horse  Sarch. 
But  on  Wildfire!  You  grow  there." 

1  'What  will  Dad  say,  and  Farlane,  and  Holley,  and 
Van?  Oh,  I'll  crow  over  Van,"  said  Lucy.  "I'm  crazy 
to  ride  Wildfire  out  before  all  the  Indians  and  ranchers 
and  riders,  before  the  races,  just  to  show  him  off,  to  make 
them  stare." 

"No,  Lucy.  The  best  plan  is  to  surprise  them  all. 
Enter  your  horse  for  the  race,  but  don't  show  up  till  all 
the  riders  are  at  the  start." 

"Yes,  that  '11  be  best.  . . .  And,  Lin,  only  five  days  more 
— five  days!" 

Her  words  made  Slone  thoughtful,  and  Lucy,  seeing 
that,  straightway  grew  thoughtful,  too. 

"Sure — only  five  days  more,"  repeated  Slone,  slowly. 

His  tone  convinced  Lucy  that  he  meant  to  speak  again 
as  he  had  spoken  once  before,  precipitating  the  only  quarrel 
they  had  ever  had. 

"  Does  any  one  at  Bostil's  Ford  know  you  meet  me  out 
here?"  he  asked,  suddenly. 

"Only  Auntie.  I  told  her  the  other  day.  She  had 
been  watching  me.  She  thought  things.  So  I  told 
her." 

"What  did  she  say?"  went  on  Slone,  curiously. 

"She  was  mad,"  replied  Lucy.  "She  scolded  me. 
She  said.  .  .  .  But,  anyway,  I  coaxed  her  not  to  tell  on 
me." 

"I  want  to  know  what  she  said,"  spoke  up  the  rider, 
deliberately. 

Lucy  blushed,  and  it  was  a  consciousness  of  confusion 
as  well  as  Slone's  tone  that  made  her  half-angry. 

"She  said  when  I  was  found  out  there'd  be  a — a  great 
fuss  at  the  Ford.  There  would  be  talk.  Auntie  said  I'm 
now  a  grown-up  girl.  .  .  .  Oh,  she  carried  on!  ...  Bostil 
would  likely  shoot  you.  And  if  he  didn't  some  of  the 

144 


WILDFIRE 

riders  would.  .  .  .  Oh,  Lin,  it  was  perfectly  ridiculous  the 
way  Auntie  talked." 

"I  reckon  not,"  replied  Slone.  "I'm  afraid  I've  done 
wrong  to  let  you  come  out  here.  .  .  .  But  I  never  thought. 
I'm  not  used  to  girls.  Ill — I'll  deserve  what  I  get  for 
lettin'  you  come." 

"It's  my  own  business,"  declared  Lucy,  spiritedly. 
"And  I  guess  they'd  better  let  you  alone." 

Slone  shook  his  head  mournfully.  He  was  getting  one 
of  those  gloomy  spells  that  Lucy  hated.  Nevertheless, 
she  felt  a  stir  of  her  pulses. 

"Lucy,  there  won't  be  any  doubt  about  my  stand — 
when  I  meet  Bostil,"  said  Slone.  Some  thought  had  ani 
mated  him. 

"What  do  you  mean?"    Lucy  trembled  a  little. 

There  was  a  sternness  about  Slone,  a  dignity  that 
seemed  new.  "I'll  ask  him  to — to  let  you  marry  me." 

Lucy  stared  aghast.     Slone  appeared  in  dead  earnest. 

"Nonsense!"  she  exclaimed,  shortly. 

"I  reckon  the  possibility  is — that,"  replied  Slone,  bit 
terly,  "but  my  motive  isn't." 

"It  is.  Why,  you've  known  me  only  a  few  days.  .  .  . 
Dad  would  be  mad.  Like  as  not  he'd  knock  you  down. 
...  I  tell  you,  Lin,  my  dad  is — is  pretty  rough.  And 
just  at  this  time  of  the  races.  .  .  .  And  if  Wildfire  beats 
the  King!  .  .  .  Whew!" 

"When  Wildfire  beats  the  King,  not  #,"  corrected 
Slone. 

"Dad  will  be  dangerous,"  warned  Lucy.  "Please 
don't — don't  ask  him  that.  Then  everybody  would 
know  I — I — you — you — " 

"That's  it.     I  want  everybody  at  your  home  to  know." 

"But  it's  a  little  place,"  flashed  Lucy.  "Every  one 
knows  me.  I'm  the  only  girl.  There  have  been — other 
fellows  who.  .  .  .  And  oh!  I  don't  want  you  made  fun  of!" 

"Why?"  he  asked. 

Lucy  turned  away  her  head  without  answering.    Some- 


WILDFIRE 

thing  deep  within  her  was  softening  her  anger.  She 
must  fight  to  keep  angry;  and  that  was  easy  enough,  she 
thought,  if  she  could  only  keep  in  mind  Slone's  opposition 
to  her.  Strangely,  she  discovered  that  it  had  been  sweet 
to  find  him  always  governed  by  her  desire  or  will. 

"Maybe  you  misunderstand,"  he  began,  presently. 
And  his  voice  was  not  steady.  "I  don't  forget  I'm  only 
— a  beggarly  rider.  I  couldn't  have  gone  into  the  Ford 
at  all — I  was  such  a  ragamuffin — " 

"Don't  talk  like  that!"  interrupted  Lucy,  impatiently. 

"  Listen,"  he  replied.  "  My  askin'  Bostil  for  you  doesn't 
mean  I've  any  hope. . . .  It's  just  I  want  him  an'  everybody 
to  know  that  I  asked." 

"But  Dad — everybody  will  think  that  you  think  there's 
reason — why — I — why,  you  ought  to  ask,"  burst  out 
Lucy,  with  scarlet  face. 

"Sure,  that's  it,"  he  replied. 

"But  there's  no  reason.  None!  Not  a  reason  under 
the  sun,"  retorted  Lucy,  hotly.  "I  found  you  out  here. 
I  did  you  a — a  little  service.  We  planned  to  race  Wild 
fire.  And  I  came  out  to  ride  him.  .  .  .  That's  all." 

Slone's  dark,  steady  gaze  disconcerted  Lucy.  "But, 
no  one  knows  me,  and  we've  been  alone  in  secret." 

"It's  not  altogether— that.    I— I  told  Auntie,"  fal 
tered  Lucy. 

"Yes,  just  lately." 

"  Lin  Slone,  I'll  never  forgive  you  if  you  ask  Dad  that," 
declared  Lucy,  with  startling  force. 

"I  reckon  that's  not  so  important." 

"Oh! — so  you  don't  care."  Lucy  felt  herself  indeed  in 
a  mood  not  comprehensible  to  her.  Her  blood  raced. 
She  wanted  to  be  furious  with  Slone,  but  somehow  she 
could  not  wholly  be  so.  There  was  something  about 
him  that  made  her  feel  small  and  thoughtless  and  selfish. 
Slone  had  hurt  her  pride.  But  the  thing  that  she  feared 
and  resented  and  could  not  understand  was  the  strange 
gladness  Slone's  declaration  roused  in  her.  She  tried  to 

146 


WILDFIRE 

control  her  temper  so  she  could  think.  Two  emotions 
contended  within  her — one  of  intense  annoyance  at  the 
thought  of  embarrassment  surely  to  follow  Slone's  action, 
and  the  other  a  vague,  disturbing  element,  all  sweet  and 
furious  and  inexplicable.  She  must  try  to  dissuade  him 
from  approaching  her  father. 

"Please  don't  go  to  Dad."  She  put  a  hand  on  Slone's 
arm  as  he  stood  close  up  to  Wildfire. 

"I  reckon  I  will,"  he  said. 

"Lin!"  In  that  word  there  was  the  subtle,  nameless 
charm  of  an  intimacy  she  had  never  granted  him  until 
that  moment.  He  seemed  drawn  as  if  by  invisible  wires. 
He  put  a  shaking  hand  on  hers  and  crushed  her  gauntleted 
fingers.  And  Lucy,  in  the  current  now  of  her  woman's 
need  to  be  placated,  if  not  obeyed,  pressed  her  small  hand 
to  his.  How  strange  to  what  lengths  a  little  submission 
to  her  feeling  had  carried  her !  Every  spoken  word,  every 
movement,  seemed  to  exact  more  from  her.  She  did  not 
know  herself. 

"Lin!  .  .  .  Promise  not  to — speak  to  Dad!" 

"No."    His  voice  rang. 

"Don't  give  me  away — don't  tell  my  Dad!" 

"What?"  he  queried,  incredulously. 

Lucy  did  not  understand  what.  But  his  amazed  voice, 
his  wide-open  eyes  of  bewilderment,  seemed  to  aid  her 
into  piercing  the  maze  of  her  own  mind.  A  hundred 
thoughts  whirled  together,  and  all  around  them  was 
wrapped  the  warm,  strong  feeling  of  his  hand  on  hers. 
What  did  she  mean  that  he  would  tell  her  father?  There 
seemed  to  be  a  deep,  hidden  self  in  her.  Up  out  of  these 
depths  came  a  whisper,  like  a  ray  of  light,  and  it  said  to 
her  that  there  was  more  hope  for  Lin  Slone  than  he  had 
ever  had  in  one  of  his  wildest  dreams. 

"Lin,  if  you  tell  Dad — then  he'll  know — and  there  won't 
be  any  hope  for  you!"  cried  Lucy,  honestly. 

If  Slone  caught  the  significance  of  her  words  he  did 
not  believe  it. 

n  147 


WILDFIRE 

"I'm  goin'  to  Bostil  after  the  race  an'  ask  him.  That's 
settled,"  declared  Slone,  stubbornly. 

At  this  Lucy  utterly  lost  her  temper.  "Oh!  you — you 
fool!"  she  cried. 

Slone  drew  back  suddenly  as  if  struck,  and  a  spot  of 
dark  blood  leaped  to  his  lean  face.  "No!  It  seems  to 
me  the  right  way." 

"Right  or  wrong  there's  no  sense  in  it — because — be 
cause.  Oh!  can't  you  see?" 

"  I  see  more  than  I  used  to,"  he  replied.  "  I  was  a  fool 
over  a  horse.  An'  now  I'm  a  fool  over  a  girl.  ...  I  wish 
you'd  never  found  me  that  day!" 

Lucy  whirled  in  the  saddle  and  made  Wildfire  jump. 
She  quieted  him,  and,  leaping  off,  threw  the  bridle  to 
Slone.  "I  won't  ride  your  horse  in  the  race!"  she  de 
clared,  with  sudden  passion.  She  felt  herself  shaking 
all  over. 

"Lucy  Bostil,  I  wish  I  was  as  sure  of  Heaven  as  I  am 
you'll  be  up  on  Wildfire  in  that  race,"  he  said. 

"I  won't  ride  your  horse." 

"My  horse.     Oh,  I  see But  you'll  ride  Wildfire." 

"I  won't." 

Slone  suddenly  turned  white,  and  his  eyes  flashed  dark 
fire.  "You  won't  be  able  to  help  ridin'  him  any  more 
than  I  could  help  it." 

"A  lot  you  know  about  me,  Lin  Slone!"  returned  Lucy, 
with  scorn.  ' '  I  can  be  as — as  bull-headed  as  you,  any  day. ' ' 

Slone  evidently  controlled  his  temper,  though  his  face 
remained  white.  He  even  smiled  at  her. 

"You  are  Bostil's  daughter,"  he  said. 

"Yes." 

"You  are  blood  an'  bone,  heart  an*  soul  a  rider,  if 
any  girl  ever  was.  You're  a  wonder  with  a  horse — as 
good  as  any  man  I  ever  saw.  You  love  Wildfire.  An* 
look — how  strange!  That  wild  stallion — that  killer  of 
horses,  why  he  follows  you,  he  whistles  for  you,  he  runs 
like  lightnin'  for  you;  he  loves  you." 

148 


WILDFIRE 

Slone  had  attacked  Lucy  in  her  one  weak  point.  She 
felt  a  force  rending  her.  She  dared  not  look  at  Wildfire. 
Yes — all  that  was  true  Slone  had  said.  How  desperately 
hard  to  think  of  forfeiting  the  great  race  she  knew  she 
could  win! 

" Never!  I'll  never  ride  your  Wildfire  again!"  she  said, 
very  low. 

"Mine! ...  So  that's  the  trouble.  Well,  Wildfire  won't 
be  mine  when  you  ride  the  race." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  demanded  Lucy.  "You'll  sell 
him  to  Bostil.  .  .  .  Bah!  you  couldn't!" 

"Sell  Wildfire!— after  what  it  cost  me  to  catch  an* 
break  him?  .  .  .  Not  for  all  your  father's  lands  an'  horses 
an'  money!" 

Slone's  voice  rolled  out  with  deep,  ringing  scorn.  And 
Lucy,  her  temper  quelled,  began  to  feel  the  rider's  strength, 
his  mastery  of  the  situation,  and  something  vague,  yet 
splendid  about  him  that  hurt  her. 

Slone  strode  toward  her.  Lucy  backed  against  the 
cedar-tree  and  could  go  no  farther.  How  white  he  was 
now!  Lucy's  heart  gave  a  great,  fearful  leap,  for  she 
imagined  Slone  intended  to  take  her  in  his  arms.  But 
he  did  not. 

"When  you  ride — Wildfire  in  that — race  he'll  be — 
yours!"  said  Slone,  huskily. 

"How  can  that  be?"  questioned  Lucy,  in  astonish 
ment. 

"I  give  him  to  you." 

"You — give — Wildfire — to  me?"  gasped  Lucy. 

"Yes.    Right  now." 

The  rider's  white  face  and  dark  eyes  showed  the  strain 
of  great  and  passionate  sacrifice. 

"Lin  Slone!  ...  I  can't — understand  you." 

"You've  got  to  ride  Wildfire  in  that  race.  YouVe  got 
to  beat  the  King.  ...  So  I  give  Wildfire  to  you.  An'  now 
you  can't  help  but  ride  him." 

"Why — why  do  you  give  him — to  me?"  faltered  Lucy. 
149 


WILDFIRE 

All  her  pride  and  temper  had  vanished,  and  she  seemed 
lost  in  blankness. 

"Because  you  love  Wildfire.  An'  Wildfire  loves  you. 
...  If  that  isn't  reason  enough — then  .  .  .  because  I  love 
him — as  no  rider  ever  loved  a  horse.  .  .  .  An'  I  love  you 
as  no  man  ever  loved  a  girl!" 

Slone  had  never  before  spoken  words  of  love  to  Lucy. 
She  dropped  her  head.  She  knew  of  his  infatuation.  But 
he  had  always  been  shy  except  once  when  he  had  been 
bold,  and  that  had  caused  a  quarrel.  With  a  strange  pain 
at  her  breast  Lucy  wondered  why  Slone  had  not  spoken 
that  way  before?  It  made  as  great  a  change  in  her  as  if 
she  had  been  born  again.  It  released  something.  A  bolt 
shot  back  in  her  heart.  She  knew  she  was  quivering  like 
a  leaf,  with  no  power  to  control  her  muscles.  She  knew 
if  she  looked  up  then  Slone  might  see  the  depths  of  her 
soul.  Even  with  her  hands  shutting  out  the  light  she 
thought  the  desert  around  had  changed  and  become  all 
mellow  gold  and  blue  and  white,  radiant  as  the  moonlight 
of  dreams — and  that  the  monuments  soared  above  them 
grandly,  and  were  beautiful  and  noble,  like  the  revelations 
of  love  and  joy  to  her.  And  suddenly  she  found  herself 
sitting  at  the  foot  of  the  cedar,  weeping,  with  tear-wet 
hands  over  her  face. 

"There's  nothin*  to — to  cry  about,"  Slone  was  saying. 
"But  I'm  sorry  if  I  hurt  you." 

"Will — you — please — fetch  Sarch?"  asked  Lucy,  tremu 
lously. 

While  Slone  went  for  the  horse  and  saddled  him  Lucy 
composed  herself  outwardly.  And  she  had  two  very 
strong  desires — one  to  tell  Slone  something,  and  the  other 
to  run.  She  decided  she  would  do  both  together. 

Slone  brought  Sarchedon.  Lucy  put  on  her  gauntlets, 
and,  mounting  the  horse,  she  took  a  moment  to  arrange 
her  skirts  before  she  looked  down  at  Slone.  He  was  now 
pale,  rather  than  white,  and  instead  of  fire  in  his  eyes 
there  was  sadness.  Lucy  felt  the  swelling  and  pounding 

150 


WILDFIRE 

of  her  heart — and  a  long,  delicious  shuddering  thrill  that 
ran  over  her. 

"Lin,  I  won't  take  Wildfire,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  you  will.  You  can't  refuse.  Remember  he's 
grown  to  look  to  you.  It  wouldn't  be  right  by  the 
horse." 

"But  he's  all  you  have  in  the  world,"  she  protested. 
Yet  she  knew  any  protestations  would  be  in  vain. 

"No.     I  have  good  old  faithful  Nagger." 

"Would  you  go  try  to  hunt  another  wild  stallion — like 
Wildfire?"  asked  Lucy,  curiously.  She  was  playing  with 
the  wonderful  sweet  consciousness  of  her  power  to  render 
happiness  when  she  chose. 

* '  No  more  horse-huntin'  for  me, "  declared  Slone.  ' '  An* 
as  for  findin'  one  like  Wildfire — that  'd  never  be." 

"Suppose  I  won't  accept  him?" 

"  How  could  you  refuse  ?  Not  for  me,  but  for  Wildfire's 
sake ! . . .  But  if  you  could  be  mean  an*  refuse,  why,  Wild 
fire  can  go  back  to  the  desert." 

"No!"  exclaimed  Lucy. 

"I  reckon  so." 

Lucy  paused  a  moment.  How  dry  her  tongue  seemed ! 
And  her  breathing  was  labored.  An  unreal  shimmering 
gleam  shone  on  all  about  her.  Even  the  red  stallion  ap 
peared  enveloped  in  a  glow.  And  the  looming  monu 
ments  looked  down  upon  her,  paternal,  old,  and  wise, 
bright  with  the  color  of  happiness. 

"Wildfire  ought  to  have  several  more  days'  training — 
then  a  day  of  rest — and  then  the  race,"  said  Lucy,  turn 
ing  again  to  look  at  Slone. 

A  smile  was  beginning  to  change  the  hardness  of  his 
face.  "Yes,  Lucy,"  he  said. 

"And  I'll  have  to  ride  him?" 

"You  sure  will — if  he's  ever  to  beat  the  King." 

Lucy's  eyes  flashed  blue.  She  saw  the  crowd — the 
curious,  friendly  Indians — the  eager  riders — the  spirited 
horses — the  face  of  her  father — and  last  the  race  itself, 


WILDFIRE 

such  a  race  as  had  never  been  run,  so  swift,  so  fierce,  so 
wonderful. 

4 'Then  Lin,"  began  Lucy,  with  a  slowly  heaving  breast, 
"if  I  accept  Wildfire  will  you  keep  him  for  me — until  .  .  . 
and  if  I  accept  him,  and  tell  you  why,  will  you  promise 
to  say—" 

" Don't  ask  me  again!"  interrupted  Slone,  hastily.  "I 
will  speak  to  Bostil." 

"Wait,  will  you  . . .  promise  not  to  say  a  word — a  single 
word  to  me — till  after  the  race?" 

"A  word — to  you!  What  about?"  he  queried,  wonder- 
ingly.  Something  in  his  eyes  made  Lucy  think  of  the 
dawn. 

"About— the—  Because—  Why,  I'm—  I'll  accept 
your  horse." 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  swiftly. 

Lucy  settled  herself  in  the  saddle  and,  shortening  the 
bridle,  she  got  ready  to  spur  Sarchedon  into  a  bolt. 

"Lin,  I'll  accept  Wildfire  because  I  love  you." 

Sarchedon  leaped  forward.  Lucy  did  not  see  Slone's 
face  nor  hear  him  speak.  Then  she  was  tearing  through 
the  sage,  out  past  the  whistling  Wildfire,  with  the  wind 
sweet  in  her  face.  She  did  not  look  back. 


CHAPTER  XI 

ALL  through  May  there  was  an  idea,  dark  and  sinister, 
growing  in  Bostil's  mind.  Fiercely  at  first  he  had 
rejected  it  as  utterly  unworthy  of  the  man  he  was.  But 
it  returned.  It  would  not  be  denied.  It  was  fostered  by 
singular  and  unforeseen  circumstances.  The  meetings 
with  Creech,  the  strange,  sneaking  actions  of  young  Joel 
Creech,  and  especially  the  gossip  of  riders  about  the  im 
provement  in  Creech's  swift  horse — these  things  appeared 
to  loom  larger  and  larger  and  to  augment  in  Bostil's  mind 
the  monstrous  idea  which  he  could  not  shake  off.  So  he 
became  brooding  and  gloomy. 

It  appeared  to  be  an  indication  of  his  intense  pre 
occupation  of  mind  that  he  seemed  unaware  of  Lucy's 
long  trips  down  into  the  sage.  But  Bostil  had  observed 
them  long  before  Holley  and  other  riders  had  approached 
him  with  the  information. 

"Let  her  alone,"  he  growled  to  his  men.  "I  gave  her 
orders  to  train  the  King.  An'  after  Van  got  well  mebbe 
Lucy  just  had  a  habit  of  ridin'  down  there.  She  can 
take  care  of  herself." 

To  himself,  when  alone,  Bostil  muttered:  "Wonder 
what  the  kid  has  looked  up  now?  Some  mischief, 
111  bet!" 

Nevertheless,  he  did  not  speak  to  her  on  the  subject. 
Deep  in  his  heart  he  knew  he  feared  his  keen-eyed  daugh 
ter,  and  during  these  days  he  was  glad  she  was  not  in 
evidence  at  the  hours  when  he  could  not  very  well  keep 
entirely  to  himself.  Bostil  was  afraid  Lucy  might  divine 
what  he  had  on  his  mind.  There  was  no  one  else  he  cared 


WILDFIRE 

for.  Holley,  that  old  hawk-eyed  rider,  might  see  through 
him,  but  Bostil  knew  Holley  would  be  loyal,  whatever 
he  saw. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  month,  when  Somers  returned 
from  horse-hunting,  Bostil  put  him  and  Shugrue  to  work 
upon  the  big  flatboat  down  at  the  crossing.  Bostil  him 
self  went  down,  and  he  walked — a  fact  apt  to  be  considered 
unusual  if  it  had  been  noticed. 

"Put  in  new  planks,"  was  his  order  to  the  men.  "An' 
pour  hot  tar  in  the  cracks.  Then  when  the  tar  dries 
shove  her  in  ...  but  I'll  tell  you  when." 

Every  morning  young  Creech  rowed  over  to  see  if  the 
boat  was  ready  to  take  the  trip  across  to  bring  his  father's 
horses  back.  The  third  morning  of  work  on  the  boat 
Bostil  met  Joel  down  there.  Joel  seemed  eager  to  speak 
to  Bostil.  He  certainly  was  a  wild-looking  youth. 

"Bostil,  my  ole  man  is  losin'  sleep  waitin'  to  git  the 
hosses  over,"  he  said,  frankly.  "Feed's  almost  gone." 

"That  '11  be  all  right,  Joel,"  replied  Bostil.  "You  see, 
the  river  ain't  begun  to  raise  yet.  .  .  .  How're  the  hosses 
comin'  on?" 

"Grand,  sir — grand!"  exclaimed  the  simple  Joel.  "Peg 
is  runnin'  faster  than  last  year,  but  Blue  Roan  is  leavin' 
her  a  mile.  Dad's  goin'  to  bet  all  he  has.  The  roan 
can't  lose  this  year." 

Bostil  felt  like  a  bull  bayed  at  by  a  hound.  Blue  Roan 
was  a  young  horse,  and  every  season  he  had  grown  bigger 
and  faster.  The  King  had  reached  the  limit  of  his  speed. 
That  was  great,  Bostil  knew,  and  enough  to  win  over 
any  horse  in  the  uplands,  providing  the  luck  of  the  race 
fell  even.  Luck,  however,  was  a  fickle  thing. 

"I  was  advisin'  Dad  to  swim  the  hosses  over,"  declared 
Joel,  deliberately. 

"A-huh!    You  was?  .  .  .  An*  why?"  rejoined  Bostil. 

Joel's  simplicity  and  frankness  vanished,  and  with  them 
his  rationality.  He  looked  queer.  His  contrasting  eyes 
shot  little  malignant  gleams.  He  muttered  incoherently, 

154 


WILDFIRE 

and  moved  back  toward  the  skiff,  making  violent  gestures, 
and  his  muttering  grew  to  shouting,  though  still  incoherent. 
He  got  in  the  boat  and  started  to  row  back  over  the  river. 

"Sure  he's  got  a  screw  loose,"  observed  Somers. 

Shugrue  tapped  his  grizzled  head  significantly. 

Bostil  made  no  comment.  He  strode  away  from  his 
men  down  to  the  river  shore,  and,  finding  a  seat  on  a  stone, 
he  studied  the  slow  eddying  red  current  of  the  river  and 
he  listened.  If  any  man  knew  the  strange  and  remorseless 
Colorado,  that  man  was  Bostil.  He  never  made  any 
mistakes  in  anticipating  what  the  river  was  going  to  do. 

And  now  he  listened,  as  if  indeed  the  sullen,  low  roar, 
the  murmuring  hollow  gurgle,  the  sudden  strange  splash, 
were  spoken  words  meant  for  his  ears  alone.  The  river 
was  low.  It  seemed  tired  out.  It  was  a  dirty  red  in 
color,  and  it  swirled  and  flowed  along  lingeringly.  At 
times  the  current  was  almost  imperceptible;  and  then 
again  it  moved  at  varying  speed.  It  seemed  a  petulant, 
waiting,  yet  inevitable  stream,  with  some  remorseless 
end  before  it.  It  had  a  thousand  voices,  but  not  the  one 
Bostil  listened  to  hear. 

He  plodded  gloomily  up  the  trail,  resting  in  the  quiet, 
dark  places  of  the  canon,  loath  to  climb  out  into  the  clear 
light  of  day.  And  once  in  the  village,  Bostil  shook  him 
self  as  if  to  cast  off  an  evil,  ever-present,  pressing  spell. 

The  races  were  now  only  a  few  days  off.  Piutes  and 
Navajos  were  camped  out  on  the  sage,  and  hourly  the 
number  grew  as  more  came  in.  They  were  building  cedar 
sunshades.  Columns  of  blue  smoke  curled  up  here  and 
there.  Mustangs  and  ponies  grazed  everywhere,  and  a  line 
of  Indians  extended  along  the  racecourse,  where  trials  were 
being  held.  The  village  was  full  of  riders,  horse-traders  and 
hunters,  and  ranchers.  Work  on  the  ranges  had  practical 
ly  stopped  for  the  time  being,  and  in  another  day  or  so 
every  inhabitant  of  the  country  would  be  in  Bostil's  Ford. 

Bostil  walked  into  the  village,  grimly  conscious  that  the 
presence  of  the  Indians  and  riders  and  horses,  the  action 


WILDFIRE 

and  color  and  bustle,  the  near  approach  of  the  great  race- 
day — these  things  that  in  former  years  had  brought  him 
keen  delight  and  speculation — had  somehow  lost  their 
tang.  He  had  changed.  Something  was  wrong  in  him. 
But  he  must  go  among  these  visitors  and  welcome  them 
as  of  old;  he  who  had  always  been  the  life  of  these  racing- 
days  must  be  outwardly  the  same.  And  the  task  was  all 
the  harder  because  of  the  pleasure  shown  by  old  friends 
among  the  Indians  and  the  riders  at  meeting  him.  Bostil 
knew  he  had  been  a  cunning  horse-trader,  but  he  had 
likewise  been  a  good  friend.  Many  were  the  riders  and 
Indians  who  owed  much  to  him.  So  everywhere  he  was 
hailed  and  besieged,  until  finally  the  old  excitement  of 
betting  and  bantering  took  hold  of  him  and  he  forgot  his 
brooding. 

Brackton's  place,  as  always,  was  a  headquarters  for  all 
visitors.  Macomber  had  just  come  in  full  of  enthusiasm 
and  pride  over  the  horse  he  had  entered,  and  he  had 
money  to  wager.  Two  Navajo  chiefs,  called  by  white 
men  Old  Horse  and  Silver,  were  there  for  the  first  time  in 
years.  They  were  ready  to  gamble  horse  against  horse. 
Cal  Blinn  and  his  riders  of  Durango  had  arrived;  like 
wise  Colson,  Sticks,  and  Burthwait,  old  friends  and  rivals 
of  Bostil's. 

For  a  while  Brackton's  was  merry.  There  was  some 
drinking  and  much  betting.  It  was  characteristic  of  Bos- 
til  that  he  would  give  any  odds  asked  on  the  King  in  a 
race ;  and,  furthermore,  he  would  take  any  end  of  wagers 
on  other  horses.  As  far  as  his  own  horses  were  concerned 
he  bet  shrewdly,  but  in  races  where  his  horses  did  not 
figure  he  seemed  to  find  fun  in  the  betting,  whether  or 
not  he  won. 

The  fact  remained,  however,  that  there  were  only  two 
wagers  against  the  King,  and  both  were  put  up  by  Ind 
ians.  Macomber  was  betting  on  second  or  third  place 
for  his  horse  in  the  big  race.  No  odds  of  Bostil's  tempted 
him. 

156 


WILDFIRE 

"Say,  where's  Wetherby?"  rolled  out  Bostil.  "He'll 
back  his  hoss." 

"  Wetherby 's  ridin'  over  to-morrow,"  replied  Macomber. 
"But  you  gotta  bet  him  two  to  one." 

"See  hyar,  Bostil,"  spoke  up  old  Cal  Blinn,  "you  jest 
wait  till  I  git  an  eye  on  the  King's  runnin'.  Mebbe  I'll 
go  you  even  money." 

"An'  as  fer  me,  Bostil,"  said  Colson,  "I  ain't  set  up 
yit  which  hoss  I'll  race." 

Burthwait,  an  old  rider,  came  forward  to  Brackton's 
desk  and  entered  a  wager  against  the  field  that  made 
all  the  men  gasp. 

"By  George!  pard,  you  ain't  a-limpin'  along!"  ejacu 
lated  Bostil,  admiringly,  and  he  put  a  hand  on  the  other's 
shoulder. 

"Bostil,  I've  a  grand  hoss,"  replied  Burthwait.  "He's 
four  years  old,  I  guess,  fer  he  was  born  wild,  an'  you  never 
seen  him." 

"Wild  hoss?  .  .  .  Huh!"  growled  Bostil.  "You  must 
think  he  can  run." 

"Why,  Bostil,  a  streak  of  lightnin'  ain't  anywheres 
with  him." 

"Wai,  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Bostil,  gruffly.  "Brack, 
how  many  hosses  entered  now  for  the  big  race?" 

The  lean,  gray  Brackton  bent  earnestly  over  his  soiled 
ledger,  while  the  riders  and  horsemen  round  him  grew 
silent  to  listen. 

"Thar's  the  Sage  King,  by  Bostil,"  replied  Brackton. 
"Blue  Roan  an'  Peg,  by  Creech;  Whitefoot,  by  Macomber; 
Rocks,  by  Holley;  Hossshoes,  by  Blinn;  Bay  Charley, 
by  Burthwait.  Then  thar's  the  two  mustangs  entered 
by  Old  Hoss  an'  Silver— an*  last— Wildfire,  by  Lucy 
Bostil." 

"What's  thet  last?"  queried  Bostil. 

"Wildfire,  by  Lucy  Bostil,"  repeated  Brackton. 

"Has  the  girl  gone  an'  entered  a  hoss?" 

"She  sure  has.  She  came  in  to-day,  regular  an*  busi- 

157 


WILDFIRE 

ness-like,  writ  her  name  an'  her  boss's — here  'tis — an* 
put  up  the  entrance  money." 

"Wai,  I'll  be  d— d!"  exclaimed  Bostil.  He  was  aston 
ished  and  pleased.  "She  said  she'd  do  it.  But  I  didn't 
take  no  stock  in  her  talk.  .  .  .  An'  the  hoss's  name?" 

"Wildfire." 

"Huh!  .  .  .  Wildfire.  Mebbe  thet  girl  can't  think  of 
names  for  hosses!  What's  this  hoss  she  calls  Wildfire?" 

"She  sure  didn't  say,"  replied  Brackton.  "Holley  an' 
Van  an*  some  more  of  the  boys  was  here.  They  joked 
her  a  little.  You  oughter  seen  the  look  Lucy  give  them. 
But  fer  once  she  seemed  mum.  She  jest  walked  away 
mysterious  like." 

"Lucy's  got  a  pony  off  some  Indian,  I  reckon,"  returned 
Bostil,  and  he  laughed.  "Then  thet  makes  ten  hosses 
entered  so  far?" 

"Right.  An*  there's  sure  to  be  one  more.  I  guess  the 
track's  wide  enough  for  twelve." 

"Wai,  Brack,  there'll  likely  be  one  hoss  out  in  front 
an*  some  stretched  out  behind,"  replied  Bostil,  dryly. 
"The  track's  sure  wide  enough." 

"Won't  thet  be  a  grand  race!"  exclaimed  an  enthusias 
tic  rider.  "Wisht  I  had  about  a  million  to  bet!" 

"Bostil,  I  'most  forgot,"  went  on  Brackton,  "Cordts 
sent  word  by  the  Piutes  who  come  to-day  thet  he'd  be 
here  sure." 

Bostil's  face  subtly  changed.  The  light  seemed  to 
leave  it.  He  did  not  reply  to  Brackton — did  not  show 
that  he  heard  the  comment  on  all  sides.  Public  opinion 
was  against  Bostil's  permission  to  allow  Cordts  and  his 
horse-thieves  to  attend  the  races.  Bostil  appeared  grave, 
regretful.  Yet  it  was  known  by  all  that  in  the  strange 
ness  and  perversity  of  his  rider's  nature  he  wanted  Cordts 
to  see  the  King  win  that  race.  It  was  his  rider's  vanity 
and  defiance  in  the  teeth  of  a  great  horse-thief.  But  no 
good  would  come  of  Cordts's  presence — that  much  was 
manifest. 

158 


WILDFIRE 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence.  All  these  men,  if  they 
did  not  fear  Bostil,  were  sometimes  uneasy  when  near 
him.  Some  who  were  more  reckless  than  discreet  liked 
to  irritate  him.  That,  too,  was  a  rider's  weakness. 

"When's  Creech's  hosses  comin'  over?"  asked  Colson, 
with  sudden  interest. 

"Wai,  I  reckon — soon,"  replied  Bostil,  constrainedly, 
and  he  turned  away. 

By  the  time  he  got  home  all  the  excitement  of  the  past 
hour  had  left  him  and  gloom  again  abided  in  his  mind. 
He  avoided  his  daughter  and  forgot  the  fact  of  her  en 
tering  a  horse  in  the  race.  He  ate  supper  alone,  without 
speaking  to  his  sister.  Then  in  the  dusk  he  went  out  to 
the  corrals  and  called  the  King  to  the  fence.  There  was 
love  between  master  and  horse.  Bostil  talked  low,  like 
a  woman,  to  Sage  King.  And  the  hard  old  rider's  heart 
was  full  and  a  lump  swelled  in  his  throat,  for  contact  with 
the  King  reminded  him  that  other  men  loved  other  horses. 

Bostil  returned  to  the  house  and  went  to  his  room, 
where  he  sat  thinking  in  the  dark.  By  and  by  all  was 
quiet.  Then  seemingly  with  a  wrench  he  bestirred  him 
self  and  did  what  for  him  was  a  strange  action.  Remov 
ing  his  boots,  he  put  on  a  pair  of  moccasins.  He  slipped 
out  of  the  house;  he  kept  to  the  flagstone  of  the  walk; 
he  took  to  the  sage  till  out  of  the  village,  and  then  he 
sheered  round  to  the  river  trail.  With  the  step  and  sure- 
ness  and  the  eyes  of  an  Indian  he  went  down  through  that 
pitch-black  canon  to  the  river  and  the  ford. 

The  river  seemed  absolutely  the  same  as  during  the 
day.  He  peered  through  the  dark  opaqueness  of  gloom. 
It  moved  there,  the  river  he  knew,  shadowy,  mysterious, 
murmuring.  Bostil  went  down  to  the  edge  of  the  water, 
and,  sitting  there,  he  listened.  Yes — the  voices  of  the 
stream  were  the  same.  But  after  a  long  time  he  imagined 
there  was  among  them  an  infinitely  low  voice,  as  if  from 
a  great  distance.  He  imagined  this;  he  doubted;  he 
made  sure;  and  then  all  seemed  fancy  again.  His  mind 

159 


WILDFIRE 

held  only  one  idea  and  was  riveted  round  it.  Restrained 
his  hearing,  so  long,  so  intently,  that  at  last  he  knew  he 
had  heard  what  he  was  longing  for.  Then  in  the  gloom 
he  took  to  the  trail,  and  returned  home  as  he  had  left, 
stealthily,  like  an  Indian. 

But  Bostil  did  not  sleep  nor  rest. 

Next  morning  ear  y  he  rode  down  to  the  river.  Somers 
and  Shugrue  had  finished  the  boat  and  were  waiting. 
Other  men  were  there,  curious  and  eager.  Joel  Creech, 
barefooted  and  ragged,  with  hollow  eyes  and  strange  ac 
tions,  paced  the  sands. 

The  boat  was  lying  bottom  up.  Bostil  examined  the 
new  planking  and  the  seams.  Then  he  straightened  his 
form. 

"Turn  her  over,"  he  ordered.  "Shove  her  in.  An' 
let  her  soak  up  to-day." 

The  men  seemed  glad  and  relieved.  Joel  Creech  heard 
and  he  came  near  to  Bostil. 

"You'll — you'll  fetch  Dad's  bosses  over?"  he  queried. 

"Sure.     To-morrow,"  replied  Bostil,  cheerily. 

Joel  smiled,  and  that  smile  showed  what  might  have 
been  possible  for  him  under  kinder  conditions  of  life. 
"Now,  Bostil,  I'm  sorry  fer  what  I  said,"  blurted  Joel. 

* '  Shut  up.    Go  tell  your  old  man. ' ' 

Joel  ran  down  to  his  skiff  and,  leaping  in,  began  to  row 
vigorous' y  across.  Bostil  watched  while  the  workmen 
turned  the  boat  over  and  slid  it  off  the  sand-bar  and  tied 
it  securely  to  the  mooring.  Bostil  observed  that  not  a 
man  there  saw  anything  unusual  about  the  river.  But, 
for  that  matter,  there  was  nothing  to  see.  The  river  was 
the  same. 

That  night  when  all  was  quiet  in  and  around  the  vil 
lage  Bostil  emerged  from  his  house  and  took  to  his 
stealthy  stalk  down  toward  the  river. 

The  moment  he  got  out  into  the  night  oppression  left 
him.  How  interminable  the  hours  had  been!  Suspense, 

1 60 


WILDFIRE 

doubt,  anxiety,  fear  no  longer  burdened  him.  The  night 
was  dark,  with  only  a  few  stars,  and  the  air  was  cool.  A 
soft  wind  blew  across  his  heated  face.  A  neighbor's  dog, 
baying  dismally,  startled  Bostil.  He  halted  to  listen, 
then  stole  on  under  the  cottonwoods,  through  the  sage, 
down  the  trail,  into  the  jet-black  canon.  Yet  he  found 
his  way  as  if  it  had  been  light.  In  the  darkness  of  his 
room  he  had  been  a  slave  to  his  indecision;  now  in  the 
darkness  of  the  looming  cliffs  he  was  free,  resolved, 
immutable. 

The  distance  seemed  short.  He  passed  out  of  the  nar 
row  canon,  skirted  the  gorge  over  the  river,  and  hurried 
down  into  the  shadowy  amphitheater  under  the  looming 
walls. 

The  boat  lay  at  the  mooring,  one  end  resting  lightly  on 
the  sand-bar.  With  strong,  nervous  clutch  Bostil  felt 
the  knots  of  the  cables.  Then  he  peered  into  the  opaque 
gloom  of  that  strange  and  huge  V-shaped  split  between 
the  great  canon  walls.  Bostil's  mind  had  begun  to  relax 
from  the  single  idea.  Was  he  alone?  Except  for  the  low 
murmur  of  the  river  there  was  dead  silence — a  silence 
like  no  other — a  silence  which  seemed  held  under  im 
prisoning  walls.  Yet  Bostil  peered  long  into  the  shadows. 
Then  he  looked  up.  The  ragged  ramparts  far  above 
frowned  bold  and  black  at  a  few  cold  stars,  and  the  blue 
of  its  sky  was  without  the  usual  velvety  brightness.  How 
far  it  was  up  to  that  corrugated  rim!  All  of  a  sudden 
Bostil  hated  this  vast  ebony  pit. 

He  strode  down  to  the  water  and,  sitting  upon  the  stone 
he  had  occupied  so  often,  he  listened.  He  turned  his  ear 
up-stream,  then  down-stream,  and  to  the  side,  and  again 
up-stream  and  listened. 

The  river  seemed  the  same. 

It  was  slow,  heavy,  listless,  eddying,  lingering,  moving 
— the  same  apparently  as  for  days  past.  It  splashed 
very  softly  and  murmured  low  and  gurgled  faintly.  It 
gave  forth  fitful  little  swishes  and  musical  tinkles  and 

161 


WILDFIRE 

lapping  sounds.  It  was  flowing  water,  yet  the  proof  was 
there  of  tardiness.  Now  it  was  almost  still,  and  then 
again  it  moved  on.  It  was  a  river  of  mystery  telling  a  lie 
with  its  low  music.  As  Bostil  listened  all  those  soft, 
watery  sounds  merged  into  what  seemed  a  moaning,  and 
that  moaning  held  a  roar  so  low  as  to  be  only  distinguish 
able  to  the  ear  trained  by  years. 

No — the  river  was  not  the  same.  For  the  voice  of  its 
soft  moaning  showed  to  Bostil  its  meaning.  It  called 
from  the  far  north — the  north  of  great  ice-clad  peaks  be 
ginning  to  glisten  under  the  nearing  sun;  of  vast  snow- 
filled  canons  dripping  and  melting;  of  the  crystal  brooks 
suddenly  colored  and  roiled  and  filled  bank-full  along  the 
mountain  meadows;  of  many  brooks  plunging  down  and 
down,  rolling  the  rocks,  to  pour  their  volume  into  the 
growing  turbid  streams  on  the  slopes.  It  was  the  voice 
of  all  that  widely  separated  water  spilled  suddenly  with 
magical  power  into  the  desert  river  to  make  it  a  mighty, 
thundering  torrent,  red  and  defiled,  terrible  in  its  increas 
ing  onslaught  into  the  canon,  deep,  ponderous,  but  swift 
— the  Colorado  in  flood. 

And  as  Bostil  heard  that  voice  he  trembled.  What  was 
the  thing  he  meant  to  do?  A  thousand  thoughts  assailed 
him  in  answer  and  none  were  clear.  A  chill  passed  over 
him.  Suddenly  he  felt  that  the  cold  stole  up  from  his 
feet.  They  were  both  in  the  water.  He  pulled  them  out 
and,  bending  down,  watched  the  dim,  dark  line  of  water. 
It  moved  up  and  up,  inch  by  inch,  swiftly.  The  river  was 
on  the  rise ! 

Bostil  leaped  up.  He  seemed  possessed  of  devils.  A 
rippling  hot  gush  of  blood  fired  his  every  vein  and  tremor 
after  tremor  shook  him. 

"By  G— d!  I  had  it  right— she's  risin'!"  he  exclaimed, 
hoarsely. 

He  stared  in  fascinated  certainty  at  the  river.  All 
about  it  and  pertaining  to  it  had  changed.  The  murmur 
and  moan  changed  to  a  low,  sullen  roar.  The  music  was 

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WILDFIRE 

gone.  The  current  chafed  at  its  rock-bound  confines. 
Here  was  an  uneasy,  tormented,  driven  river!  The  light 
from  the  stars  shone  on  dark,  glancing,  restless  waters, 
uneven  and  strange.  And  while  Bostil  watched,  whether 
it  was  a  short  time  or  long,  the  remorseless,  destructive 
nature  of  the  river  showed  itself. 

Bostil  began  to  pace  the  sands.  He  thought  of  those 
beautiful  race-horses  across  the  river. 

"It's  not  too  late!"  he  muttered.  "I  can  get  the  boat 
over  an'  back — yet!" 

He  knew  that  on  the  morrow  the  Colorado  in  flood 
would  bar  those  horses,  imprison  them  in  a  barren  canon, 
shut  them  in  to  starve. 

"It  'd  be  hellish!  .  .  .  Bostil,  you  can't  do  it.  You  ain't 
thet  kind  of  a  man.  .  .  .  Bostil  poison  a  water-hole  where 
hosses  loved  to  drink,  or  burn  over  grass !  .  .  .  What  would 
Lucy  think  of  you?  .  .  .  No,  Bostil,  you've  let  spite  rule 
bad.  Hurry  now  and  save  them  hosses !" 

He  strode  down  to  the  boat.  It  swung  clear  now,  and 
there  was  water  between  it  and  the  shore.  Bostil  laid 
hold  of  the  cables.  As  he  did  so  he  thought  of  Creech 
and  a  blackness  enfolded  him.  He  forgot  Creech's  horses. 
Something  gripped  him,  burned  him — some  hard  and 
bitter  feeling  which  he  thought  was  hate  of  Creech. 
Again  the  wave  of  fire  ran  over  him,  and  his  huge  hands 
strained  on  the  cables.  The  fiend  of  that  fiendish  river 
had  entered  his  soul.  He  meant  ruin  to  a  man.  He 
meant  more  than  ruin.  He  meant  to  destroy  what  his 
enemy,  his  rival  loved.  The  darkness  all  about  him,  the 
gloom  and  sinister  shadow  of  the  canon,  the  sullen  increas 
ing  roar  of  the  river — these  lent  their  influence  to  the 
deed,  encouraged  him,  drove  him  onward,  fought  and 
strangled  the  resistance  in  his  heart.  As  he  brooded  all 
the  motives  for  the  deed  grew  like  that  remorseless  river. 
Had  not  his  enemy's  son  shot  at  him  from  ambush  ?  Was 
not  his  very  life  at  stake?  A  terrible  blow  must  be  dealt 
Creech,  one  that  would  crush  him  or  else  lend  him  man- 
12  163 


WILDFIRE 

hood  enough  to  come  forth  with  a  gun.  Bostil,  in  his 
torment,  divined  that  Creech  would  know  who  had  ruined 
him.  They  would  meet  then,  as  Bostil  had  tried  more 
than  once  to  bring  about  a  meeting.  Bostil  saw  into  his 
soul,  and  it  was  a  gulf  like  this  canon  pit  where  the  dark 
and  sullen  river  raged.  He  shrank  at  what  he  saw,  but 
the  furies  of  passion  held  him  fast.  His  hands  tore  at  the 
cables.  Then  he  fell  to  pacing  to  and  fro  in  the  gloom. 
Every  moment  the  river  changed  its  voice.  In  an  hour 
flood  would  be  down.  Too  late,  then!  Bostil  again  re 
membered  the  sleek,  slim,  racy  thoroughbreds — Blue 
Roan,  a  wild  horse  he  had  longed  to  own,  and  Peg,  a 
mare  that  had  no  equal  in  the  uplands.  Where  did  Bos- 
til's  hate  of  a  man  stand  in  comparison  with  love  of  a 
horse?  He  began  to  sweat  and  the  sweat  burned  him. 

"How  soon  11  Creech  hear  the  river  an'  know  what's 
comin'?"  muttered  Bostil,  darkly.  And  that  question 
showed  him  how  he  was  lost.  All  this  strife  of  doubt  and 
fear  and  horror  were  of  no  use.  He  meant  to  doom 
Creech's  horses.  The  thing  had  been  unalterable  from 
the  inception  of  the  insidious,  hateful  idea.  It  was  ir 
resistible.  He  grew  strong,  hard,  fierce,  and  implacable. 
He  found  himself.  He  strode  back  to  the  cables.  The 
knots,  having  dragged  in  the  water,  were  soaking  wet  and 
swollen.  He  could  not  untie  them.  Then  he  cut  one 
strand  after  another.  The  boat  swung  out  beyond  his 
reach. 

Instinctively  Bostil  reached  to  pull  it  back. 

" My  God! ...  It's  goin' !"  he  whispered.  "What  have 
I  done?" 

He — Bostil — who  had  made  this  Crossing  of  the  Fathers 
more  famous  as  Bostil 's  Ford — he — to  cut  the  boat  adrift! 
The  thing  was  inconceivable. 

The  roar  of  the  river  rose  weird  and  mournful  and  in 
cessant,  with  few  breaks,  and  these  were  marked  by  strange 
ripping  and  splashing  sounds  made  as  the  bulges  of  water 
broke  on  the  surface.  Twenty  feet  out  the  boat  floated, 

164 


WILDFIRE 

turning  a  little  as  it  drifted.  It  seemed  loath  to  leave. 
It  held  on  the  shore  eddy.  Hungrily,  spitefully  the  little, 
heavy  waves  lapped  it.  Bostil  watched  it  with  dilating 
eyes.  There!  the  current  caught  one  end  and  the  water 
rose  in  a  hollow  splash  over  the  corner.  An  invisible 
hand,  like  a  mighty  giant's,  seemed  to  swing  the  boat  out. 
It  had  been  dark;  now  it  was  opaque,  now  shadowy, 
now  dim.  How  swift  this  cursed  river!  Was  there  any 
way  in  which  Bostil  could  recover  his  boat?  The  river 
answered  him  with  hollow,  deep  mockery.  Despair 
seized  upon  him.  And  the  vague  shape  of  the  boat, 
spectral  and  instinct  with  meaning,  passed  from  Bostil's 
strained  gaze. 

"So  help  me  God,  I've  done  it!"  he  groaned,  hoarsely. 
And  he  staggered  back  and  sat  down.  Mind  and  heart 
and  soul  were  suddenly  and  exquisitely  acute  to  the  shame 
of  his  act.  Remorse  seized  upon  his  vitals.  He  suffered 
physical  agony,  as  if  a  wolf  gnawed  him  internally. 

"To  hell  with  Creech  an'  his  hosses,  but  where  do  I 
come  in  as  a  man?"  he  whispered.  And  he  sat  there, 
arms  tight  around  his  knees,  locked  both  mentally  and 
physically  into  inaction. 

The  rising  water  broke  the  spell  and  drove  him  back. 
The  river  was  creeping  no  longer.  It  swelled.  And  the 
roar  likewise  swelled.  Bostil  hurried  across  the  flat  to 
get  to  the  rocky  trail  before  he  was  cut  off,  and  the  last 
few  rods  he  waded  in  water  up  to  his  knees. 

"I'll  leave  no  trail  there,"  he  muttered,  with  a  hard 
laugh.  It  sounded  ghastly  to  him,  like  the  laugh  of  the 
river. 

And  there  at  the  foot  of  the  rocky  trail  he  halted  to' 
watch  and  listen.  The  old  memorable  boom  came  to  his 
ears.  The  flood  was  coming.  For  twenty-three  years  he" 
had  heard  the  vanguard  boom  of  the  Colorado  in  flood.] 
But  never  like  this,  for  in  the  sound  he  heard  the  strife 
and  passion  of  his  blood,  and  realized  himself  a  human 
counterpart  of  that  remorseless  river.  The  moments 

165 


WILDFIRE 

passed  and  each  one  saw  a  swelling  of  the  volume  of 
sound.  The  sullen  roar  just  below  him  was  gradually 
lost  in  a  distant  roar.  A  steady  wind  now  blew  through 
the  canon.  The  great  walls  seemed  to  gape  wider  to 
prepare  for  the  torrent.  Bostil  backed  slowly  up  the 
trail  as  foot  by  foot  the  water  rose.  The  floor  of  the 
amphitheater  was  now  a  lake  of  choppy,  angry  waves. 
The  willows  bent  and  seethed  in  the  edge  of  the  current. 
Beyond  ran  an  uneven,  bulging  mass  that  resembled 
some  gray,  heavy  moving  monster.  In  the  gloom  Bostil 
could  see  how  the  river  turned  a  corner  of  wall  and  slanted 
away  from  it  toward  the  center,  where  it  rose  higher. 
Black  objects  that  must  have  been  driftwood  appeared 
on  this  crest.  They  showed  an  instant,  then  flashed  out 
of  sight.  The  boom  grew  steadier,  closer,  louder,  and 
the  reverberations,  like  low  detonations  of  thunder,  were 
less  noticeable  because  all  sounds  were  being  swallowed 
up. 

A  harder  breeze  puffed  into  BostiTs  face.  It  brought  a 
tremendous  thunder,  as  if  all  the  colossal  walls  were  fall 
ing  in  avalanche.  Bostil  knew  the  crest  of  the  flood  had 
turned  the  corner  above  and  would  soon  reach  him.  He 
watched.  He  listened,  but  sound  had  ceased.  His  ears 
seemed  ringing  and  they  hurt.  All  his  body  felt  cold, 
and  he  backed  up  and  up,  with  dead  feet. 

The  shadows  of  the  canon  lightened.  A  river-wide 
froth,  like  a  curtain,  moved  down,  spreading  mushroom- 
wise  before  it,  a  rolling,  heaving  maelstrom.  Bostil  ran 
to  escape  the  great  wave  that  surged  into  the  amphi 
theater,  up  and  up  the  rocky  trail.  When  he  turned 
again  he  seemed  to  look  down  into  hell.  Murky  depths, 
streaked  by  pale  gleams,  and  black,  sinister,  changing 
forms  yawned  beneath  them.  He  watched  with  fixed 
eyes  until  once  more  the  feeling  of  filled  ears  left  him 
and  an  awful  thundering  boom  assured  him  of  actualities. 
It  was  only  the  Colorado  in  flood. 


CHAPTER  XII 

BOSTIL  slept  that  night,  but  his  sleep  was  troubled, 
and  a  strange,  dreadful  roar  seemed  to  run  through 
it,  like  a  mournful  wind  over  a  dark  desert.  He  was 
awakened  early  by  a  voice  at  his  window.  He  listened. 
There  came  a  rap  on  the  wood. 

"  Bostil ! .  .  .  Bostil !' '     It  was  Holley's  voice. 

Bostil  rolled  off  the  bed.  He  had  slept  without  remov 
ing  any  apparel  except  his  boots. 

"Wai,  Hawk,  what  d'ye  mean  wakin'  a  man  at  this 
unholy  hour?"  growled  Bostil. 

HoUey's  face  appeared  above  the  rude  sill.  It  was  pale 
and  grave,  with  the  hawk  eyes  like  glass.  "It  ain't  so 
awful  early,"  he  said.  "Listen,  boss." 

Bostil  halted  in  the  act  of  pulling  on  a  boot.  He 
looked  at  his  man  while  he  listened.  The  still  air  outside 
seemed  filled  with  low  boom,  like  thunder  at  a  distance. 
Bostil  tried  to  look  astounded. 

"Hell! . . .  It's  the  Colorado!    She's  boomin' !" 

"Reckon  it's  hell  all  right— for  Creech,"  replied  Holley. 
"Boss,  why  didn't  you  fetch  them  hosses  over?" 

Bostil's  face  darkened.  He  was  a  bad  man  to  oppose — 
to  question  at  times.  "Holley,  you're  sure  powerful 
anxious  about  Creech.  Are  you  his  friend?" 

"Naw!  I've  little  use  fer  Creech,"  replied  Holley. 
"An,  you  know  thet.  But  I  hold  for  his  hosses  as  I  would 
any  man's." 

"A-huh!    An'  what's  your  kick?" 

"Nothin' — except  you  could  have  fetched  them  over 
before  the  flood  come  down.  That's  all." 


WILDFIRE 

The  old  horse-trader  and  his  right-hand  rider  looked  at 
each  other  for  a  moment  in  silence.  They  understood 
each  other.  Then  Bostil  returned  to  the  task  of  pulling 
on  wet  boots  and  Holley  went  away. 

Bostil  opened  his  door  and  stepped  outside.  The  east 
ern  ramparts  of  the  desert  were  bright  red  with  the  rising 
sun.  With  the  night  behind  him  and  the  morning  cool 
and  bright  and  beautiful,  Bostil  did  not  suffer  a  pang 
nor  feel  a  regret.  He  walked  around  under  the  cotton- 
woods  where  the  mocking-birds  were  singing.  The  shrill, 
screeching  bray  of  a  burro  split  the  morning  stillness,  and 
with  that  the  sounds  of  the  awakening  village  drowned 
that  sullen,  dreadful  boom  of  the  river.  Bostil  went  in 
to  breakfast. 

He  encountered  Lucy  in  the  kitchen,  and  he  did  not 
avoid  her.  He  could  tell  from  her  smiling  greeting  that 
he  seemed  to  her  his  old  self  again.  Lucy  wore  an  apron 
and  she  had  her  sleeves  rolled  up,  showing  round,  strong, 
brown  arms.  Somehow  to  Bostil  she  seemed  different. 
She  had  been  pretty,  but  now  she  was  more  than  that. 
She  was  radiant.  Her  blue  eyes  danced.  She  looked  ex 
cited.  She  had  been  telling  her  aunt  something,  and 
that  worthy  woman  appeared  at  once  shocked  and  de 
lighted.  But  Bostil's  entrance  had  caused  a  mysterious 
break  in  everything  that  had  been  going  on,  except  the 
preparation  of  the  morning  meal. 

"Now  I  rode  in  on  some  confab  or  other,  that's  sure," 
said  Bostil,  good-naturedly. 

"You  sure  did,  Dad,"  replied  Lucy,  with  a  bright 
smile. 

"Wai,  let  me  sit  in  the  game/'  he  rejoined. 

"Dad,  you  can't  even  ante,"  said  Lucy. 

"Jane,  what's  this  kid  up  to?"  asked  Bostil,  turning 
to  his  sister. 

"The  good  Lord  only  knows!"  replied  Aunt  Jane,  with 
a  sigh. 

"Kid?  .  .  .  See  here,  Dad,  I'm  eighteen  long  ago.  I'm 

168 


WILDFIRE 

grown  up.  I  can  do  as  I  please,  go  where  I  like,  and 
anything.  .  .  .  Why,  Dad,  I  could  get — married." 

"Haw!  haw!"  laughed  Bostil.     "Jane,  hear  the  girl." 

"I  hear  her,  Bostil,"  sighed  Aunt  Jane. 

"Wai,  Lucy,  I'd  just  like  to  see  you  fetch  some  fool 
love-sick  rider  around  when  I'm  feelin'  good,"  said  Bostil. 

Lucy  laughed,  but  there  was  a  roguish,  daring  flash  in 
her  eyes.  "Dad,  you  do  seem  to  have  all  the  young  fel 
lows  scared.  Some  day  maybe  one  will  ride  along — a 
rider  like  you  used  to  be — that  nobody  could  bluff.  .  .  . 
And  he  can  have  me!" 

"  A-huh! .  .  .  Lucy,  are  you  in  fun?" 

Lucy  tossed  her  bright  head,  but  did  not  answer. 

"Jane,  what's  got  into  her?"  asked  Bostil,  appealing 
to  his  sister. 

"Bostil,  she's  in  fun,  of  course,"  declared  Aunt  Jane. 
"Still,  at  that,  there's  some  sense  in  what  she  says. 
Come  to  your  breakfast,  now." 

Bostil  took  his  seat  at  the  table,  glad  that  he  could  once 
more  be  amiable  with  his  women-folk.  "Lucy,  to-morrow 
'11  be  the  biggest  day  Bostil's  Ford  ever  seen,"  he  said. 

"It  sure  will  be,  Dad.  The  biggest  surprising  day  the 
Ford  ever  had,"  replied  Lucy. 

"  Surprisin'?" 

"Yes,  Dad." 

"Who's  goin'  to  get  surprised?" 

"Everybody." 

Bostil  said  to  himself  that  he  had  been  used  to  Lucy's 
banter,  but  during  his  moody  spell  of  days  past  he  had 
forgotten  how  to  take  her  or  else  she  was  different. 

"Brackton  tells  me  you've  entered  a  hoss  against  the 
field." 

"It's  an  open  race,  isn't  it?" 

"Open  as  the  desert,  Lucy,"  he  replied.  "What's  this 
hoss  Wildfire  you've  entered?" 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  know?"  taunted  Lucy. 

"If  he's  as  good  as  his  name  you  might  be  in  at  the 

169 


WILDFIRE 

finish.  .  .  .  But,  Lucy,  my  dear,  talkin'  good  sense  now — 
you  ain't  a-goin*  to  go  up  on  some  unbroken  mustang  in 
this  big  race?" 

"Dad,  I'm  going  to  ride  a  horse." 

"But,  Lucy,  ain't  it  a  risk  you'll  be  takin'— all  for  fun?" 

"Fun! ...  I'm  in  dead  earnest." 

Bostil  liked  the  look  of  her  then.  She  had  paled  a 
little;  her  eyes  blazed;  she  was  intense.  His  question 
had  brought  out  her  earnestness,  and  straightway  Bostil 
became  thoughtful.  If  Lucy  had  been  a  boy  she  would 
have  been  the  greatest  rider  on  the  uplands;  and  even 
girl  as  she  was,  superbly  mounted,  she  would  have  been 
dangerous  in  any  race. 

"Wai,  I  ain't  afraid  of  your  handlin'  of  a  hoss,"  he  said, 
soberly.  "An'  as  long  as  you're  in  earnest  I  won't  stop 
you.  But,  Lucy,  no  bettin'.  I  won't  let  you  gamble." 

"Not  even  with  you?"  she  coaxed. 

Bostil  stared  at  the  girl.  What  had  gotten  into  her? 
"What '11  you  bet?"  he  queried,  with  blunt  curiosity. 

"Dad,  I'll  go  you  a  hundred  dollars  in  gold  that  I 
finish  one — two — three." 

Bostil  threw  back  his  head  to  laugh  heartily.  What  a 
chip  of  the  old  block  she  was!  "Child,  there's  some  fast 
hosses  that  '11  be  back  of  the  King.  You'd  be  throwin' 
away  money." 

Blue  fire  shone  in  his  daughter's  eyes.    She  meant 
business,  all  right,  and  Bostil  thrilled  with  pride  in  her. 
'  Dad,  I'll  bet  you  two  hundred,  even,  that  I  beat  the 
King!"  she  flashed. 

"Wai,  of  all  the  nerve!"  ejaculated  Bostil.  "No,  I 
won't  take  you  up.  Reckon  I  never  before  turned  down 
an  even  bet.  Understand,  Lucy,  ridin'  in  the  race  is 
enough  for  you." 

"All  right,  Dad,"  replied  Lucy,  obediently. 

At  that  juncture  Bostil  suddenly  shoved  back  his  plate 
and  turned  his  face  to  the  open  door.  "Don't  I  hear  a 
runnin'  hoss?" 

170 


WILDFIRE 

Aunt  Jane  stopped  the  noise  she  was  making,  and  Lucy 
darted  to  the  door.  Then  Bostil  heard  the  sharp,  rhyth 
mic  hoof-beats  he  recognized.  They  shortened  to  clatter 
and  pound — then  ceased  somewhere  out  in  front  of  the 
house. 

"It's  the  King  with  Van  up,"  said  Lucy,  from  the  door. 
"Dad,  Van's  jumped  off — he's  coming  in  ...  he's  running. 
Something  has  happened.  .  .  .  There  are  other  horses 
coming — riders — Indians. ' ' 

Bostil  knew  what  was  coming  and  prepared  himself. 
Rapid  footsteps  sounded  without. 

"Hello,  Miss  Lucy!    Where's  Bostil?" 

A  lean,  supple  rider  appeared  before  the  door.  It  was 
Van,  greatly  excited. 

"Come  in,  boy,"  said  Bostil.  "What  're  you  flustered 
about?" 

Van  strode  in,  spurs  jangling,  cap  in  hand.  "Boss, 
there's — a  sixty-foot  raise — in  the  river!"  Van  panted. 

"Oh!"  cried  Lucy,  wheeling  toward  her  father. 

"Wai,  Van,  I  reckon  I  knowed  thet,"  replied  Bostil. 
"Mebbe  I'm  gettin'  old,  but  I  can  still  hear.  .  .  .  Listen." 

Lucy  tiptoed  to  the  door  and  turned  her  head  sidewise 
and  slowly  bowed  it  till  she  stiffened.  Outside  were 
sounds  of  birds  and  horses  and  men,  but  when  a  hill 
came  it  quickly  filled  with  a  sullen,  low  boom. 

"Highest  flood  we — ever  seen,"  said  Van. 

"You've  been  down?"  queried  Bostil,  sharply. 

"Not  to  the  river,"  replied  Van.  "I  went  as  far  as 
— where  the  gulch  opens — on  the  bluff.  There  was  a 
string  of  Navajos  goin'  down.  An'  some  comin'  up.  I 
stayed  there  watchin'  the  flood,  an'  pretty  soon  Somers 
come  up  the  trail  with  Blakesley  an'  Brack  an'  some  riders. 
...  An'  Somers  hollered  out,  'The  boat's  gone!'" 

"Gone!"  exclaimed  Bostil,  his  loud  cry  showing  con 
sternation. 

"Oh,  Dad!  Oh,  Van!"  cried  Lucy,  with  eyes  wide  and 
lips  parted. 

171 


WILDFIRE 

"Sure  she's  gone.  An'  the  whole  place  down  there — 
where  the  willows  was  an'  the  sand-bar — it  was  deep 
under  water." 

"What  will  become  of  Creech's  horses?"  asked  Lucy, 
breathlessly. 

"My  God!  ain't  it  a  shame!"  went  on  Bostil,  and  he 
could  have  laughed  aloud  at  his  hypocrisy.  He  felt 
Lucy's  blue  eyes  riveted  upon  his  face. 

1 '  Thet's  what  we  all  was  sayin' , ' '  went  on  Van.  ' '  While 
we  was  watchin'  the  awful  flood  an'  listenin'  to  the  deep 
bum — bum — bum  of  rollin'  rocks  some  one  seen  Creech 
an'  two  Piutes  leadin'  the  hosses  up  thet  trail  where  the 
slide  was.  We  counted  the  hosses — nine.  An'  we  saw 
the  roan  shine  blue  in  the  sunlight." 

" Piutes  with  Creech!"  exclaimed  Bostil,  the  deep  gloom 
in  his  eyes  lighting.  "By  all  thet's  lucky!  Mebbe  them 
Indians  can  climb  the  hosses  out  of  thet  hole  an'  find 
water  an'  grass  enough." 

" Mebbe,"  replied  Van,  doubtfully.  "Sure  them  Piutes 
could  if  there's  a  chance.  But  there  ain't  any  grass." 

"It  won't  take  much  grass  travelin'  by  night." 

"So  lots  of  the  boys  say.  But  the  Navajos  they 
shook  their  heads.  An'  Farlane  an'  Holley,  why,  they 
jest  held  up  their  hands." 

"With  them  Indians  Creech  has  a  chance  to  get  his 
hosses  out,"  declared  Bostil.  He  was  sure  of  his  sin 
cerity,  but  he  was  not  certain  that  his  sincerity  was  not 
the  birth  of  a  strange,  sudden  hope.  And  then  he  was 
able  to  meet  the  eyes  of  his  daughter.  That  was  his  su 
preme  test. 

"Oh,  Dad,  why,  why  didn't  you  hurry  Creech's 
horses  over?"  said  Lucy,  with  her  tears  falling. 

Something  tight  within  Bostil's  breast  seemed  to  ease 
and  lessen.  "Why  didn't  I?  ...  Wai,  Lucy,  I  reckon  I 
wasn't  in  no  hurry  to  oblige  Creech.  I'm  sorry  now." 

"It  won't  be  so  terrible  if  he  doesn't  lose  the  horses," 
murmured  Lucy. 

172 


WILDFIRE 

"Where's  young  Joel  Creech?"  asked  Bostil. 

"He  stayed  on  this  side  last  night,"  replied  Van. 
"Fact  is,  Joel's  the  one  who  first  knew  the  flood  was  on. 
Some  one  said  he  said  he  slept  in  the  canon  last  night. 
Anyway,  he's  ravin'  crazy  now.  An'  if  he  doesn't  do 
harm  to  some  one  or  hisself  I'll  miss  my  guess." 

"A-huh!"  grunted  Bostil.     "Right  you  are." 

"Dad,  can't  anything  be  done  to  help  Creech  now?" 
appealed  Lucy,  going  close  to  her  father. 

Bostil  put  his  arm  around  her  and  felt  immeasurably 
relieved  to  have  the  golden  head  press  close  to  his  shoulder. 
"Child,  we  can't  fly  acrost  the  river.  Now  don't  you 
cry  about  Creech's  hosses.  They  ain't  starved  yet.  It's 
hard  luck.  But  mebbe  it  '11  turn  out  so  Creech  '11  lose 
only  the  race.  An',  Lucy,  it  was  a  dead  sure  bet  he'd 
have  lost  thet  anyway." 

Bostil  fondled  his  daughter  a  moment,  the  first  time 
in  many  a  day,  and  then  he  turned  to  his  rider  at  the  door. 
"Van,  how's  the  King?" 

"Wild  to  run,  Bostil,  jest  plumb  wild.  There  won't 
be  any  hoss  with  the  ghost  of  a  show  to-morrow." 

Lucy  raised  her  drooping  head.  "Is  that  so,  Van 
Sickle?  .  .  .  Listen  here.  If  you  and  Sage  King  don't  get 
more  wild  running  to-morrow  than  you  ever  had  I'll 
never  ride  again!"  With  this  retort  Lucy  left  the  room. 

Van  stared  at  the  door  and  then  at  Bostil.  "What'd 
I  say,  Bostil?"  he  asked,  plaintively.  "  I'm  always  r'ilin' 
her." 

"Cheer  up,  Van.  You  didn't  say  much.  Lucy  is 
fiery  these  days.  She's  got  a  hoss  somewhere  an'  she's 
goin*  to  ride  him  in  the  race.  She  offered  to  bet  on  him — 
against  the  King !  It  certainly  beat  me  all  hollow.  But 
see  here,  Van.  I've  a  hunch  there's  a  dark  hoss  goin'  to 
show  up  in  this  race.  So  don't  underrate  Lucy  an'  her 
mount,  whatever  he  is.  She  calls  him  Wildfire.  Ever 
see  him?" 

"  I  sure  haven't.    Fact  is,  I  haven't  seen  Lucy  for  days 


WILDFIRE 

an'  days.  As  for  the  hunch  you  gave,  I'll  say  I  was 
figurin'  Lucy  for  some  real  race.  Bostil,  she  doesn't 
make  a  hoss  run.  He'll  run  jest  to  please  her.  An'  Lucy's 
lighter  'n  a  feather.  Why,  Bostil,  if  she  happened  to 
ride  out  there  on  Blue  Roan  or  some  other  hoss  as  fast 
I'd— I'd  jest  wilt." 

Bostil  uttered  a  laugh  full  of  pride  in  his  daughter. 
"Wai,  she  won't  show  up  on  Blue  Roan,"  he  replied,  with 
grim  gruffness.  "Thet's  sure  as  death.  .  .  .  Come  on  out 
now.  I  want  a  look  at  the  King." 

Bostil  went  into  the  village.  All  day  long  he  was  so 
busy  with  a  thousand  and  one  things  referred  to  him,  put 
on  him,  undertaken  by  him,  that  he  had  no  time  to 
think.  Back  in  his  mind,  however,  there  was  a  burden 
of  which  he  was  vaguely  conscious  all  the  time.  He 
worked  late  into  the  night  and  slept  late  the  next  morn 
ing. 

Never  in  his  life  had  Bostil  been  gloomy  or  retro 
spective  on  the  day  of  a  race.  In  the  press  of  matters 
he  had  only  a  word  for  Lucy,  but  that  earned  a  saucy, 
dauntless  look.  He  was  glad  when  he  was  able  to  join 
the  procession  of  villagers,  visitors,  and  Indians  moving 
out  toward  the  sage. 

The  racecourse  lay  at  the  foot  of  the  slope,  and  now 
the  gray  and  purple  sage  was  dotted  with  more  horses 
and  Indians,  more  moving  things  and  colors,  than  Bostil 
had  ever  seen  there  before.  It  was  a  spectacle  that  stirred 
him.  Many  fires  sent  up  blue  columns  of  smoke  from 
before  the  hastily  built  brush  huts  where  the  Indians 
cooked  and  ate.  Blankets  shone  bright  in  the  sun; 
burros  grazed  and  brayed;  horses  whistled  piercingly 
across  the  slope;  Indians  lolled  before  the  huts  or  talked 
in  groups,  sitting  and  lounging  on  their  ponies;  down  in 
the  valley,  here  and  there,  were  Indians  racing,  and 
others  were  chasing  the  wiry  mustangs.  Beyond  this 
gay  and  colorful  spectacle  stretched  the  valley,  merging 

174 


WILDFIRE 

into  the  desert  marked  so  strikingly  and  beautifully  by 
the  monuments. 

Bostil  was  among  the  last  to  ride  down  to  the  high 
bench  that  overlooked  the  home  end  of  the  racecourse. 
He  calculated  that  there  were  a  thousand  Indians  and 
whites  congregated  at  that  point,  which  was  the  best 
vantage-ground  to  see  the  finish  of  a  race.  And  the 
occasion  of  his  arrival,  for  all  the  gaiety,  was  one  of 
dignity  and  importance.  If  Bostil  reveled  in  anything 
it  was  in  an  hour  like  this.  His  liberality  made  this 
event  a  great  race-day.  The  thoroughbreds  were  all 
there,  blanketed,  in  charge  of  watchful  riders.  In  the 
center  of  the  brow  of  this  long  bench  lay  a  huge,  flat 
rock  which  had  been  Bostil's  seat  in  the  watching  of  many 
a  race.  Here  were  assembled  his  neighbors  and  visitors 
actively  interested  in  the  races,  and  also  the  important 
Indians  of  both  tribes,  all  waiting  for  him. 

As  Bostil  dismounted,  throwing  the  bridle  to  a  rider, 
he  saw  a  face  that  suddenly  froze  the  thrilling  delight  of 
the  moment.  A  tall,  gaunt  man  with  cavernous  black 
eyes  and  huge,  drooping  black  mustache  fronted  him 
and  seemed  waiting.  Cordts!  Bostil  had  forgotten. 
Instinctively  Bostil  stood  on  guard.  For  years  he  had 
prepared  himself  for  the  moment  when  he  would  come 
face  to  face  with  this  noted  horse-thief. 

"Bostil,  how  are  you?"  said  Cordts.  He  appeared 
pleasant,  and  certainly  grateful  for  being  permitted 
to  come  there.  From  his  left  hand  hung  a  belt  containing 
two  heavy  guns. 

"Hello,  Cordts,"  replied  Bostil,  slowly  unbending. 
Then  he  met  the  other's  proffered  hand. 

"I've  bet  heavy  on  the  King,"  said  Cordts. 

For  the  moment  there  could  have  been  no  other  way 
to  Bostil's  good  graces,  and  this  remark  made  the  gruff 
old  rider's  hard  face  relax. 

"Wai,  I  was  hopin'  you'd  back  some  other  hoss,  so  I 
could  take  your  money,"  replied  Bostil. 

175 


WILDFIRE 

Cordts  held  out  the  belt  and  guns  to  Bostil.  "I  want 
to  enjoy  this  race,"  he  said,  with  a  smile  that  somehow 
hinted  of  the  years  he  had  packed  those  guns  day  and 
night. 

"  Cordts,  I  don't  want  to  take  your  guns,"  replied  Bostil, 
bluntly.  "I've  taken  your  word  an'  that's  enough." 

"Thanks,  Bostil.  All  the  same,  as  I'm  your  guest  I 
won't  pack  them,"  returned  Cordts,  and  he  hung  the 
belt  on  the  horn  of  Bostil's  saddle.  "Some  of  my  men 
are  with  me.  They  were  all  right  till  they  got  outside 
of  Brackton's  whisky.  But  now  I  won't  answer  for 
them." 

"Wai,  you're  square  to  say  thet,"  replied  Bostil.  "Anf 
I'll  run  this  race  an'  answer  for  everybody." 

Bostil  recognized  Hutchinson  and  Dick  Sears,  but  the 
others  of  Cordts's  gang  he  did  not  know.  They  were  a 
hard-looking  lot.  Hutchinson  was  a  spare,  stoop- 
shouldered,  red-faced,  squinty-eyed  rider,  branded  all 
over  with  the  marks  of  a  bad  man.  And  Dick  Sears 
looked  his  notoriety.  He  was  a  little  knot  of  muscle, 
short  and  bow-legged,  rough  in  appearance  as  cactus. 
He  wore  a  ragged  slouch-hat  pulled  low  down.  His 
face  and  stubby  beard  were  dust-colored,  and  his  eyes 
seemed  sullen,  watchful.  He  made  Bostil  think  of  a 
dusty,  scaly,  hard,  desert  rattlesnake.  Bostil  eyed  this 
right-hand  man  of  Cordts's  and  certainly  felt  no  fear  of 
him,  though  Sears  had  the  fame  of  swift  and  deadly  skill 
with  a  gun.  Bostil  felt  that  he  was  neither  afraid  nor 
loath  to  face  Sears  in  gun-play,  and  he  gazed  at  the 
little  horse-thief  in  a  manner  that  no  one  could  mistake. 
Sears  was  not  drunk,  neither  was  he  wholly  free  from  the 
unsteadiness  caused  by  the  bottle.  Assuredly  he  had  no 
fear  of  Bostil  and  eyed  him  insolently.  Bostil  turned 
away  to  the  group  of  his  riders  and  friends,  and  he  asked 
for  his  daughter. 

"Lucy's  over  there,"  said  Farlane,  pointing  to  a  merry 
crowd. 

176 


WILDFIRE 

Bostil  waved  a  hand  to  her,  and  Lucy,  evidently  mis 
taking  his  action,  came  forward,  leading  one  of  her  ponies. 
She  wore  a  gray  blouse  with  a  red  scarf,  and  a  skirt  over 
overalls  and  boots.  She  looked  pale,  but  she  was  smil 
ing,  and  there  was  a  dark  gleam  of  excitement  in  her 
blue  eyes.  She  did  not  have  on  her  sombrero.  She 
wore  her  hair  in  a  braid,  and  had  a  red  band  tight  above 
her  forehead.  Bostil  took  her  in  all  at  a  glance.  She 
meant  business  and  she  looked  dangerous.  Bostil  knew 
once  she  slipped  out  of  that  skirt  she  could  ride  with  any 
rider  there.  He  saw  that  she  had  become  the  center 
toward  which  all  eyes  shifted.  It  pleased  him.  She  was 
his,  like  her  mother,  and  as  beautiful  and  thorough 
bred  as  any  rider  could  wish  his  daughter. 

"Lucy,  where's  your  hoss?"  he  asked,  curiously. 

"  Never  you  mind,  Dad.  I'll  be  there  at  the  finish," 
she  replied. 

" Red's  your  color  for  to-day,  then?"  he  questioned,  as 
he  put  a  big  hand  on  the  bright-banded  head. 

She  nodded  archly. 

"Lucy,  I  never  thought  you'd  flaunt  red  in  your  old 
Dad's  face.  Red,  when  the  color  of  the  King  is  like  the 
sage  out  yonder.  You've  gone  back  on  the  King." 

"No,  Dad,  I  never  was  for  Sage  King,  else  I  wouldn't 
wear  red  to-day." 

"Child,  you  sure  mean  to  run  in  this  race — the  big  one?" 

"Sure  and  certain." 

"Wai,  the  only  bitter  drop  in  my  cup  to-day  will  be 
seein'  you  get  beat.  But  if  you  run  second  I'll  give  you 
a  present  thet  '11  make  the  purse  look  sick." 

Even  the  Indian  chiefs  were  smiling.  Old  Horse,  the 
Navajo,  beamed  benignly  upon  this  daughter  of  the 
friend  of  the  Indians.  Silver,  his  brother  chieftain, 
nodded  as  if .  he  understood  Bostil's  pride  and  regret. 
Some  of  the  young  riders  showed  their  hearts  in  their 
eyes.  Farlane  tried  to  look  mysterious,  to  pretend  he 
was  in  Lucy's  confidence. 

177 


WILDFIRE 

"Lucy,  if  you  are  really  goin'  to  race  I'll  withdraw  my 
boss  so  you  can  win,"  said  Wetherby,  gallantly. 

Bostil's  sonorous  laugh  rolled  down  the  slope. 

"Miss  Lucy,  I  sure  hate  to  run  a  hoss  against  yours," 
said  old  Cal  Blinn.  Then  Colson,  Sticks,  Burthwait,  the 
other  principals,  paid  laughing  compliments  to  the 
bright-haired  girl. 

Bostil  enjoyed  this  hugely  until  he  caught  the  strange 
intensity  of  regard  in  the  cavernous  eyes  of  Cordts.  That 
gave  him  a  shock.  Cordts  had  long  wanted  this  girl  as 
much  probably  as  he  wanted  Sage  King.  There  were 
dark  and  terrible  stories  that  stained  the  name  of  Cordts. 
Bostil  regretted  his  impulse  in  granting  the  horse-thief 
permission  to  attend  the  races.  Sight  of  Lucy's  fair, 
sweet  face  might  inflame  this  Cordts — this  Kentuckian 
who  had  boasted  of  his  love  of  horses  and  women.  Be 
hind  Cordts  hung  the  little  dust-colored  Sears,  like  a 
coiled  snake,  ready  to  strike.  Bostil  felt  stir  in  him  a 
long-dormant  fire — a  stealing  along  his  veins,  a  passion 
he  hated. 

"Lucy,  go  back  to  the  women  till  you're  ready  to  come 
out  on  your  hoss,"  he  said.  "An*  mind  you,  be  careful 
to-day!" 

He  gave  her  a  meaning  glance,  which  she  understood 
perfectly,  he  saw,  and  then  he  turned  to  start  the  day's 
sport. 

The  Indian  races  run  in  twos  and  threes,  and  on  up  to 
a  number  that  crowded  the  racecourse;  the  betting  and 
yelling  and  running;  the  wild  and  plunging  mustangs; 
the  heat  and  dust  and  pounding  of  hoofs;  the  excited 
betting;  the  surprises  and  defeats  and  victories;  the  trial 
tests  of  the  principals,  jealously  keeping  off  to  themselves 
in  the  sage;  the  endless  moving,  colorful  procession, 
gaudy  and  swift  and  thrilling — all  these  Bostil  loved 
tremendously. 

But  they  were  as  nothing  to  what  they  gradually 
worked  up  to — the  climax — the  great  race. 

178 


WILDFIRE 

It  was  afternoon  when  all  was  ready  for  this  race,  and 
the  sage  was  bright  gray  in  the  westering  sun.  Every 
body  was  resting,  waiting.  The  tense  quiet  of  the  riders 
seemed  to  settle  upon  the  whole  assemblage.  Only  the 
thoroughbreds  were  restless.  They  quivered  and  stamped 
and  tossed  their  small,  fine  heads.  They  knew  what  was 
going  to  happen.  They  wanted  to  run.  Blacks,  bays, 
and  whites  were  the  predominating  colors ;  and  the  horses 
and  mustangs  were  alike  in  those  points  of  race  and  speed 
and  spirit  that  proclaimed  them  thoroughbreds. 

Bostil  himself  took  the  covering  off  his  favorite.  Sage 
King  was  on  edge.  He  stood  out  strikingly  in  contrast 
with  the  other  horses.  His  sage-gray  body  was  as  sleek 
and  shiny  as  satin.  He  had  been  trained  to  the  hour. 
He  tossed  his  head  as  he  champed  the  bit,  and  every 
moment  his  muscles  rippled  under  his  fine  skin.  Proud, 
mettlesome,  beautiful! 

Sage  King  was  the  favorite  in  the  betting,  the  Indians, 
who  were  ardent  gamblers,  plunging  heavily  on  him. 

Bostil  saddled  the  horse  and  was  long  at  the  task. 
Van  stood  watching.  He  was  pale  and  nervous.  Bostil 
saw  this. 

"Van,"  he  said,  "it's  your  race/' 

The  rider  reached  a  quick  hand  for  bridle  and  horn, 
and  when  his  foot  touched  the  stirrup  Sage  King  was  in 
the  air.  He  came  down,  springy — quick,  graceful,  and 
then  he  pranced  into  line  with  the  other  horses. 

Bostil  waved  his  hand.  Then  the  troop  of  riders  and 
racers  headed  for  the  starting-point,  two  miles  up  the  val 
ley.  Macomber  and  Blinn,  with  a  rider  and  a  Navajo, 
were  up  there  as  the  official  starters  of  the  day. 

Bostil's  eyes  glistened.  He  put  a  friendly  hand  on 
Cordts's  shoulder,  an  action  which  showed  the  stress  of 
the  moment.  Most  of  the  men  crowded  around  Bostil. 
Sears  and  Hutchinson  hung  close  to  Cordts.  And  Hoi- 
ley,  keeping  near  his  employer,  had  keen  eyes  for  other 
things  than  horses. 

13  179 


WILDFIRE 

Suddenly  he  touched  Bostil  and  pointed  down  the  slope. 
"There's  Lucy,"  he  said.  "She's  ridin'  out  to  join  the 
bunch." 

"Lucy!    Where?    I'd  forgotten  my  girl!.  .  .  Where?" 

"There,"  repeated  Holly,  and  he  pointed.  Others  of 
the  group  spoke  up,  having  seen  Lucy  riding  down. 

"She's  on  a  red  hoss,"  said  one. 

"'Pears  all-fired  big  to  me — her  hoss,"  said  another. 
"Who's  got  a  glass?" 

Bostil  had  the  only  field-glass  there  and  he  was  using 
it.  Across  the  round,  magnified  field  of  vision  moved  a 
giant  red  horse,  his  mane  waving  like  a  flame.  Lucy 
rode  him.  They  were  moving  from  a  jumble  of  broken 
rocks  a  mile  down  the  slope.  She  had  kept  her  horse 
hidden  there.  Bostil  felt  an  added  stir  in  his  pulse-beat. 
Certainly  he  had  never  seen  a  horse  like  this  one.  But 
the  distance  was  long,  the  glass  not  perfect;  he  could 
not  trust  his  sight.  Suddenly  that  sight  dimmed. 

"Holley,  I  can't  make  out  nothin',"  he  complained. 
"Take  the  glass.  Give  me  a  line  on  Lucy's  mount." 

"Boss,  I  don't  need  the  glass  to  see  that  she's  up  on  a 
hoss"  replied  Holley,  as  he  took  the  glass.  He  leveled 
it,  adjusted  it  to  his  eyes,  and  then  looked  long.  Bostil 
grew  impatient.  Lucy  was  rapidly  overhauling  the  troop 
of  racers  on  her  way  to  the  post.  Nothing  ever  hurried 
or  excited  Holley. 

"Wai,  can't  you  see  any  better  'n  me?"  queried  Bostil, 
eagerly. 

"Come  on,  Holl,  give  us  a  tip  before  she  gits  to  the 
post,"  spoke  up  a  rider. 

Cordts  showed  intense  eagerness,  and  all  the  group 
were  excited.  Lucy's  advent,  on  an  unknown  horse 
that  even  her  father  could  not  disparage,  was  the  last 
and  unexpected  addition  to  the  suspense.  They  all  knew 
that  if  the  horse  was  fast  Lucy  would  be  dangerous. 

Holley  at  last  spoke:  "She's  up  on  a  wild  stallion. 
He's  red,  like  fire.  He's  mighty  big — strong.  Looks  as 

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WILDFIRE 

if  he  didn't  want  to  go  near  the  bunch.  Lord!  what 
action! .  .  .  Bostil,  I'd  say — a  great  hoss!" 

There  was  a  moment's  intense  silence  in  the  group 
round  Bostil.  Holley  was  never  known  to  mistake  a 
horse  or  to  be  extravagant  in  judgment  or  praise. 

"A  wild  stallion!"  echoed  Bostil.  "A-huh!  An' she 
calls  him  Wildfire.  Where 'd  she  get  him?  .  .  .  Gimme 
thet  glass." 

But  all  Bostil  could  make  out  was  a  blur.  His  eyes 
were  wet.  He  realized  now  that  his  first  sight  of  Lucy 
on  the  strange  horse  had  been  clear  and  strong,  and  it 
was  that  which  had  dimmed  his  eyes. 

"Holley,  you  use  the  glass — an'  tell  me  what  comes 
off,"  said  Bostil,  as  he  wiped  his  eyes  with  his  scarf.  He 
was  relieved  to  find  that  his  sight  was  clearing.  "My 
God!  if  I  couldn't  see  this  finish!" 

Then  everybody  watched  the  close,  dark  mass  of  horses 
and  riders  down  the  valley.  And  all  waited  for  Holley 
to  speak.  "They're  linin'  up,"  began  the  rider.  "Havin' 
some  muss,  too,  it  'pears.  . .  .  Bostil,  thet  red  hoss  is  raisin' 
hell !  He  wants  to  fight.  There !  he's  up  in  the  air.  .  .  . 
Boys,  he's  a  devil — a  hoss-killer  like  all  them  wild  stallions. 
.  .  .  He's  plungin'  at  the  King — strikin'!  There!  Lucy's 
got  him  down.  She's  handlin'  him.  .  .  .  Now  they've  got 
the  King  on  the  other  side.  Thet's  better.  But  Lucy's 
hoss  won't  stand.  Anyway,  it's  a  runnin'  start.  .  .  . 
Van's  got  the  best  position.  Foxy  Van ! . . .  He'll  be  leadin' 
before  the  rest  know  the  race 's  on.  .  .  .  Them  Indian  mus 
tangs  are  behavin'  scandalous.  Guess  the  red  stallion 
scared  'em.  Now  they're  all  lined  up  back  of  the  post. . . . 
Ah!  gun-smoke!  They  move.  ...  It  looks  like  a  go." 

Then  Holley  was  silent,  strained  in  watching.  So 
were  all  the  watchers  silent.  Bostil  saw  far  down  the 
valley  a  moving,  dark  line  of  horses. 

"  They're  off!     They're  off!"  called  Holley,  thrillingly. 

Bostil  uttered  a  deep  and  booming  yell,  which  rose 
above  the  shouts  of  the  men  round  him  and  was  heard 

181 


WILDFIRE 

even  in  the  din  of  Indian  cries.  Then  as  quickly  as  the 
yells  had  risen  they  ceased. 

Holley  stood  up  on  the  rock  with  leveled  glass. 

"Mac's  dropped  the  flag.  It's  a  sure  go.  Now!  .  .  . 
Van's  out  there  front — inside.  The  King's  got  his  stride. 
Boss,  the  King's  stretchin'  out!  .  .  .  Look!  Look!  see 
thet  red  hoss  leap! .  .  .Bostil,  he's  runnin'  down  the  King! 
I  knowed  it.  He's  like  lightnin'.  He's  pushin'  the  King 
over — off  the  course!  See  him  plunge!  Lord!  Lucy 
can't  pull  him!  She  goes  up — down — tossed — but  she 
sticks  like  a  burr.  Good,  Lucy !  Hang  on ! ...  My  Gawd, 
Bostil,  the  King's  thrown!  He's  down!  .  .  .  He  comes  up, 
off  the  course.  The  others  flash  by.  .  .  .  Van's  out  of  the 
race! .  .  .  An',  Bostil — an',  gentlemen,  there  ain't  anythin' 
more  to  this  race  but  a  red  hoss!" 

Bostil's  heart  gave  a  great  leap  and  then  seemed  to 
stand  still.  He  was  half  cold,  half  hot. 

What  a  horrible,  sickening  disappointment'  Bostil 
rolled  out  a  cursing  query.  Holley's  answer  was  short 
and  sharp.  The  King  was  out!  Bostil  raved.  He 
could  not  see.  He  could  not  believe.  After  all  the  weeks 
of  preparation,  of  excitement,  of  suspense — only  this! 
There  was  no  race.  The  King  was  out!  The  thing  did 
not  seem  possible.  A  thousand  thoughts  flitted  through 
Bostil's  mind.  Rage,  impotent  rage,  possessed  him.  He 
cursed  Van,  he  swore  he  would  kill  that  red  stallion. 
And  some  one  shook  him  hard.  Some  one's  incisive 
words  cut  into  his  thick,  throbbing  ears:  "Luck  of  the 
game!  The  King  ain't  beat!  He's  only  out!" 

Then  the  rider's  habit  of  mind  asserted  itself  and  Bostil 
began  to  recover.  For  the  King  to  fall  was  hard  luck. 
But  he  had  not  lost  the  race !  Anguish  and  pride  battled 
for  mastery  over  him.  Even  if  the  King  were  out  it  was 
a  Bostil  who  would  win  the  great  race. 

"He  ain't  beat!"  muttered  Bostil.  "It  ain't  fair! 
He's  run  off  the  track  by  a  wild  stallion!" 

His  dimmed  sight  grew  clear  and  sharp.  And  with  a 

182 


WILDFIRE 

gasp  he  saw  the  moving,  dark  line  take  shape  as  horses. 
A  bright  horse  was  in  the  lead.  Brighter  and  larger  he 
grew.  Swiftly  and  more  swiftly  he  came  on.  The  bright 
color  changed  to  red.  Bostil  heard  Holley  calling  and 
Cordts  calling — and  other  voices,  but  he  did  not  dis 
tinguish  what  was  said.  The  line  of  horses  began  to 
bob,  to  bunch.  The  race  looked  close,  despite  what 
Holley  had  said.  The  Indians  were  beginning  to  lean 
forward,  here  and  there  uttering  a  short,  sharp  yell. 
Everything  within  Bostil  grew  together  in  one  great, 
throbbing,  tingling  mass.  His  rider's  eye,  keen  once 
more,  caught  a  gleam  of  gold  above  the  red,  and  that 
gold  was  Lucy's  hair.  Bostil  forgot  the  King. 

Then  Holley  bawled  into  his  ear,  "They're  half-way!" 

The  race  was  beautiful.  Bostil  strained  his  eyes.  He 
gloried  in  what  he  saw — Lucy  low  over  the  neck  of  that 
red  stallion.  He  could  see  plainer  now.  They  were 
coming  closer.  How  swiftly!  What  a  splendid  race! 
But  it  was  too  swift — it  would  not  last.  The  Indians  be 
gan  to  yell,  drowning  the  hoarse  shouts  of  the  riders.  Out 
of  the  tail  of  his  eye  Bostil  saw  Cordts  and  Sears  and 
Hutchinson.  They  were  acting  like  crazy  men.  Strange 
that  horse- thieves  should  care !  The  million  thrills  within 
Bostil  coalesced  into  one  great  shudder  of  rapture.  He 
grew  wet  with  sweat.  His  stentorian  voice  took  up  the 
call  for  Lucy  to  win. 

"Three-quarters!"  bawled  Holley  into  Bostil's  ear. 
"An'  Lucy's  give  thet  wildhoss  free  rein!  Look,  Bostil! 
You  never  in  your  life  seen  a  hoss  run  like  thet!" 

Bostil  never  had.  His  heart  swelled.  Something 
shook  him.  Was  that  his  girl — that  tight  little  gray  burr 
half  hidden  in  the  huge  stallion's  flaming  mane?  The 
distance  had  been  close  between  Lucy  and  the  bunched 
riders. 

But  it  lengthened.  How  it  widened!  That  flame  of  a 
horse  was  running  away  from  the  others.  And  now  they 
were  close — coming  into  the  home  stretch.  A  deafening 

183 


WILDFIRE 

roar  from  the  onlookers  engulfed  all  other  sounds.  A 
straining,  stamping,  arm-flinging  horde  surrounded  Bostil. 

Bostil  saw  Lucy's  golden  hair  whipping  out  from  the 
flame-streaked  mane.  And  then  he  could  only  see  that 
red  brute  of  a  horse.  Wildfire  before  the  wind!  Bostil 
thought  of  the  leaping  prairie  flame,  storm-driven. 

On  came  the  red  stallion — on — on !  What  a  tremendous 
stride !  What  a  marvelous  recovery !  What  ease !  What 
savage  action! 

He  flashed  past,  low,  pointed,  long,  going  faster 
every  magnificent  stride — winner  by  a  dozen  lengths 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WILDFIRE  ran  on  down  the  valley  far  beyond  the 
yelling  crowd  lined  along  the  slope.  Bostil  was 
deaf  to  the  throng;  he  watched  the  stallion  till  Lucy 
forced  him  to  stop  and  turn. 

Then  Bostil  whirled  to  see  where  Van  was  with  the 
King.  Most  of  the  crowd  surged  down  to  surround  the 
racers,  and  the  yells  gave  way  to  the  buzz  of  many  voices. 
Some  of  the  ranchers  and  riders  remained  near  Bostil, 
all  apparently  talking  at  once.  Bostil  gathered  that 
Holley's  Whitefoot  had  run  second,  and  the  Navajo's 
mustang  third.  It  was  Holley  himself  who  verified  what 
Bostil  had  heard.  The  old  rider's  hawk  eyes  were  warm 
with  delight. 

"Boss,  he  run  second!"  Holley  kept  repeating. 

Bostil  had  the  heart  to  shake  hands  wish  Holley  and 
say  he  was  glad,  when  it  was  on  his  lips  to  blurt  out  there 
had  been  no  race.  Then  BostiTs  nerves  tingled  at  sight 
of  Van  trotting  the  King  up  the  course  toward  the  slope. 
Bostil  watched  with  searching  eyes.  Sage  King  did  not 
appear  to  be  injured.  Van  rode  straight  up  the  slope  and 
leaped  off.  He  was  white  and  shaking. 

The  King's  glossy  hide  was  dirty  with  dust  and  bits  of 
cactus  and  brush.  He  was  not  even  hot.  There  did  not 
appear  to  be  a  bruise  or  mark  on  him.  He  whinnied  and 
rubbed  his  face  against  Bostil,  and  then,  flinching,  he  swept 
up  his  head,  ears  high .  Both  fear  and  fire  shone  in  his  eyes. 

"Wai,  Van,  get  it  out  of  your  system,"  said  Bostil, 
kindly.  He  was  a  harder  loser  before  a  race  was  run 
than  after  he  had  lost  it. 

185 


WILDFIRE 

"Thet  red  hoss  run  in  on  the  King  before  the  start  an* 
scared  the  race  out  of  him,"  replied  Van,  swiftly.  "We 
had  a  hunch,  you  know,  but  at  thet  Lucy's  hoss  was 
a  surprise.  I'll  say,  sir,  thet  Lucy  rode  her  wild  hoss 
an'  handled  him.  Twice  she  pulled  him  off  the  King. 
He  meant  to  kill  the  King !  .  .  .  Ask  any  of  the  boys.  .  .  . 
We  got  started.  I  took  the  lead,  sir.  The  King  was  in 
the  lead.  I  never  looked  back  till  I  heard  Lucy  scream. 
She  couldn't  pull  Wildfire.  He  was  rushin'  the  King — 
meant  to  kill  him.  An'  Sage  King  wanted  to  fight.  If  I 
could  only  have  kept  him  runnin'!  Thet  would  have 
been  a  race !  .  .  .  But  Wildfire  got  in  closer  an'  closer.  He 
crowded  us.  He  bit  at  the  King's  flank  an*  shoulder  an* 
neck.  Lucy  pulled  till  I  yelled  she'd  throw  the  hoss  an' 
kill  us  both.  Then  Wildfire  jumped  for  us.  Runnin'  an' 
strikin'  with  both  feet  at  once!  Bostil,  thet  hoss  's  hell! 
Then  he  hit  us  an'  down  we  went.  I  had  a  bad  spill. 
But  the  King's  not  hurt  an'  thet's  a  blessed  wonder." 

"No  race,  Van!  It  was  hard  luck.  Take  him  home," 
said  Bostil. 

Van's  story  of  the  accident  vindicated  Bostil's  doubts. 
A  new  horse  had  appeared  on  the  scene,  wild  and  swift 
and  grand,  but  Sage  King  was  still  unbeaten  in  a  fair 
race.  There  would  come  a  reckoning,  Bostil  grimly 
muttered.  Who  owned  this  Wildfire? 

Holley  might  as  well  have  read  his  mind.  "Reckon 
this  feller  rid  n*  up  will  take  down  the  prize  money," 
remarked  Holley,  and  he  pointed  to  a  man  who  rode  a 
huge,  shaggy,  black  horse  and  was  leading  Lucy's  pony. 

"A-huh!"  exclaimed  Bostil.     "A  strange  rider." 

"An'  here  comes  Lucy  coaxin'  the  stallion  back,"  add 
ed  Holley. 

"A  wild  stallion  never  clear  broke!"  ejaculated  Cordts. 

All  the  men  looked  and  all  had  some  remark  of  praise 
for  Lucy  and  her  mount. 

Bostil  gazed  with  a  strange,  irresistible  attraction. 
Never  had  he  expected  to  live  to  see  a  wild  stallion  like 

186 


WILDFIRE 

this  one,  to  say  nothing  of  his  daughter  mounted  on 
him,  with  the  record  of  having  put  Sage  King  out  of 
the  race! 

A  thousand  pairs  of  eyes  watched  Wildfire.  He 
pranced  out  there  beyond  the  crowd  of  men  and  horses. 
He  did  not  want  to  come  closer.  Yet  he  did  not  seem  to 
fight  his  rider.  Lucy  hung  low  over  his  neck,  apparently 
exhausted,  and  she  was  patting  him  and  caressing  him. 
There  were  horses  and  Indians  on  each  side  of  the  race 
track,  and  between  these  lines  Lucy  appeared  reluctant 
to  come. 

Bostil  strode  down  and,  waving  and  yelling  for  every 
body  to  move  back  to  the  slope,  he  cleared  the  way  and 
then  stood  out  in  front  alone. 

"Ride  up,  now,"  he  called  to  Lucy. 

It  was  then  Bostil  discovered  that  Lucy  did  not  wear 
a  spur  and  she  had  neither  quirt  nor  whip.  She  turned 
Wildfire  and  he  came  prancing  on,  head  and  mane  and 
tail  erect.  His  action  was  beautiful,  springy,  and  every 
few  steps,  as  Lucy  touched  him,  he  jumped  with  mar 
velous  ease  and  swiftness. 

Bostil  became  all  eyes.  He  did  not  see  his  daughter  as 
she  paraded  the  winner  before  the  applauding  throng. 
And  Bostil  recorded  in  his  mind  that  which  he  would 
never  forget — a  wild  stallion,  with  unbroken  spirit;  a 
giant  of  a  horse,  glistening  red,  with  mane  like  dark- 
striped,  wind-blown  flame,  all  muscle,  all  grace,  all 
power;  a  neck  long  and  slender  and  arching  to  the  small, 
savagely  beautiful  head;  the  jaws  open,  and  the  thin- 
skinned,  pink-colored  nostrils  that  proved  the  Arabian 
blood;  the  slanting  shoulders  and  the  deep,  broad  chest, 
the  powerful  legs  and  knees  not  too  high  nor  too  low,  the 
symmetrical  dark  hoofs  that  rang  on  the  little  stones — 
all  these  marks  so  significant  of  speed  and  endurance.  A 
stallion  with  a  wonderful  physical  perfection  that  matched 
the  savage,  ruthless  spirit  of  the  desert  killer  of  horses! 

Lucy  waved  her  hand,  and  the  strange  rider  to  whom 

187 


WILDFIRE 

Holley  had  called  attention  strode  out  of  the  crowd  tow 
ard  Wildfire. 

Bostil's  gaze  took  in  the  splendid  build  of  this  lithe 
rider,  the  clean-cut  face,  the  dark  eye.  This  fellow  had  a 
shiny,  coiled  lasso  in  hand.  He  advanced  toward  Wild 
fire.  The  stallion  snorted  and  plunged.  If  ever  Bostil 
saw  hate  expressed  by  a  horse  he  saw  it  then.  But  he 
seemed  to  be  tractable  to  the  control  of  the  girl.  Bostil 
swiftly  grasped  the  strange  situation.  Lucy  had  won  the 
love  of  the  savage  stallion.  That  always  had  been  the 
secret  of  her  power.  And  she  had  hated  Sage  King  be 
cause  he  alone  had  somehow  taken  a  dislike  to  her. 
Horses  were  as  queer  as  people,  thought  Bostil. 

The  rider  walked  straight  up  to  the  trembling  Wild 
fire.  When  Wildfire  plunged  and  reared  up  and  up  the 
rider  leaped  for  the  bridle  and  with  an  iron  arm  pulled 
the  horse  down.  Wildfire  tried  again,  almost  lifting  the 
rider,  but  a  stinging  cut  from  the  lasso  made  him  come 
to  a  stand.  Plainly  the  rider  held  the  mastery. 

"Dad!"  called  Lucy,  faintly. 

Bostil  went  forward,  close,  while  the  rider  held  Wild 
fire.  Lucy  was  as  wan-faced  as  a  flower  by  moonlight. 
Her  eyes  were  dark  with  emotions,  fear  predominating. 
Then  for  Bostil  the  half  of  his  heart  that  was  human  re 
asserted  itself.  Lucy  was  only  a  girl  now,  and  weakening. 
Her  fear,  her  pitiful  little  smile,  as  if  she  dared  not  hope 
for  her  father's  approval  yet  could  not  help  it,  touched 
Bostil  to  the  quick,  and  he  opened  his  arms.  Lucy  slid 
down  into  them. 

"Lucy,  girl,  you've  won  the  King's  race  an*  double- 
crossed  your  poor  old  dad!" 

"Oh,  Dad,  I  never  knew — I  never  dreamed  Wildfire — 
would  jump  the  King,"  Lucy  faltered.  "I  couldn't  hold 
him.  He  was  terrible.  ...  It  made  me  sick.  .  .  .  Daddy, 
tell  me  Van  wasn't  hurt — or  the  King!" 

"The  hoss's  all  right  an'  so's  Van,"  replied  Bostil. 
"Don't  cry,  Lucy.  It  was  a  fool  trick  you  pulled  off, 

188 


WILDFIRE 

but  you  did  it  great.  By  Gad!  you  sure  was  ridin'  thet 
red  devil.  .  .  .  An'  say,  it's  all  right  with  me!" 

Lucy  did  not  faint  then,  but  she  came  near  it.  Bostil 
put  her  down  and  led  her  through  the  lines  of  admiring 
Indians  and  applauding  riders,  and  left  her  with  the 
women. 

When  he  turned  again  he  was  in  time  to  see  the  strange 
rider  mount  Wildfire.  It  was  a  swift  and  hazardous 
mount,  the  stallion  being  in  the  air.  When  he  came  down 
he  tore  the  turf  and  sent  it  flying,  and  when  he  shot  up 
again  he  was  doubled  in  a  red  knot,  bristling  with  fiery- 
hair,  a  furious  wild  beast,  mad  to  throw  the  rider.  Bostil 
never  heard  as  wild  a  scream  uttered  by  a  horse.  Like 
wise  he  had  never  seen  so  incomparable  a  horseman  as  this 
stranger.  Indians  and  riders  alike  thrilled  at  a  sight 
which  was  after  their  own  hearts.  The  rider  had  hooked 
his  long  spurs  under  the  horse  and  now  appeared  a  part 
of  him.  He  could  not  be  dislodged.  This  was  not  a 
bucking  mustang,  but  a  fierce,  powerful,  fighting  stallion. 
No  doubt,  thought  Bostil,  this  fight  took  place  every 
time  the  rider  mounted  his  horse.  It  was  the  sort  of 
thing  riders  loved.  Most  of  them  would  not  own  a  horse 
that  would  not  pitch.  Bostil  presently  decided,  however, 
that  in  the  case  of  this  red  stallion  no  rider  in  his  right 
senses  would  care  for  such  a  fight,  simply  because  of  the 
extraordinary  strength,  activity,  and  ferocity  of  the 
stallion. 

The  riders  were  all  betting  the  horse  would  throw  the 
stranger.  And  Bostil,  seeing  the  gathering  might  of 
Wildfire's  momentum,  agreed  with  them.  No  horseman 
could  stick  on  that  horse.  Suddenly  Wildfire  tripped  in 
the  sage,  and  went  sprawling  in  the  dust,  throwing  his 
rider  ahead.  Both  man  and  beast  were  quick  to  rise, 
but  the  rider  had  a  foot  in  the  stirrup  before  Wildfire  was 
under  way.  Then  the  horse  plunged,  ran  free,  came 
circling  back,  and  slowly  gave  way  to  the  rider's  control. 
Those  few  moments  of  frenzied  activity  had  brought  out 

189 


WILDFIRE 

the  foam  and  the  sweat — Wildfire  was  wet.     The  rider 
pulled  him  in  before  Bostil  and  dismounted. 

"Sometimes  I  ride  him;  then  sometimes  I  don't,"  he 
said,  with  a  smile. 

Bostil  held  out  his  hand.  He  liked  this  rider.  He 
would  have  liked  the  frank  face,  less  hard  than  that  of 
most  riders,  and  the  fine,  dark  eyes,  straight  and  steady, 
even  if  their  possessor  had  not  come  with  the  open  sesame 
to  BostiTs  regard — a  grand,  wild  horse,  and  the  nerve  to 
ride  him. 

"Wai,  you  rode  him  longer  'n  any  of  us  figgered,"  said 
Bostil,  heartily  shaking  the  man's  hand.  "I'm  Bostil. 
Glad  to  meet  you." 

"My  name's  Slone — Lin  Slone,"  replied  the  rider, 
frankly.  "I'm  a  wild-horse  hunter  an'  hail  from  Utah." 

"Utah?  How'd  you  ever  get  over?  Wai,  you've  got 
a  grand  hoss — an'  you  put  a  grand  rider  up  on  him  in 
the  race.  .  .  .  My  girl  Lucy — " 

Bostil  hesitated.  His  mind  was  running  swiftly.  Back 
of  his  thoughts  gathered  the  desire  and  the  determination 
to  get  possession  of  this  horse  Wildfire.  He  had  forgotten 
what  he  might  have  said  to  this  stranger  under  different 
circumstances.  He  looked  keenly  into  Slone's  face  and 
saw  no  fear,  no  subterfuge.  The  young  man  was  honest. 

"Bostil,  I  chased  this  wild  horse  days  an'  weeks  an* 
months,  hundreds  of  miles — across  the  canon  an'  the 
river — " 

"No!"  interrupted  Bostil,  blankly. 

"Yes.  I'll  tell  you  how  later.  .  .  .  Out  here  somewhere 
I  caught  Wildfire,  broke  him  as  much  as  he'll  ever  be 
broken.  He  played  me  out  an'  got  away.  Your  girl 
rode  along — saved  my  horse — an'  saved  my  life,  too. 
I  was  in  bad  shape  for  days.  But  I  got  well — an' — an* 
then  she  wanted  me  to  let  her  run  Wildfire  in  the  big 
race.  I  couldn't  refuse.  .  .  .  An'  it  would  have  been  a 
great  race  but  for  the  unlucky  accident  to  Sage  King. 
I'm  sorry,  sir." 

190 


WILDFIRE 

"Slone,  it  jarred  me  some,  thet  disappointment.  But 
it's  over,"  replied  Bostil.  "An'  so  thet's  how  Lucy  found 

her  hoss.     She  sure  was  mysterious Wai,  wal."    Bostil 

became  aware  of  others  behind  him.  "Holley,  shake 
hands  with  Slone,  hoss-wrangler  out  of  Utah.  .  .  .  You, 
too,  Cal  Blinn.  .  .  .  An'  Macomber — an'  Wetherby,  meet 
my  friend  here — young  Slone. . . .  An',  Cordts,  shake  hands 
with  a  feller  thet  owns  a  grand  hoss!" 

Bostil  laughed  as  he  introduced  the  horse-thief  to  Slone. 
The  others  laughed,  too,  even  Cordts  joining  in.  There 
was  much  of  the  old  rider  daredevil  spirit  left  in  Bostil, 
and  it  interested  and  amused  him  to  see  Cordts  and 
Slone  meet.  Assuredly  Slone  had  heard  of  the  noted 
stealer  of  horses.  The  advantage  was  certainly  on 
Cordts's  side,  for  he  was  good-natured  and  pleasant 
while  Slone  stiffened,  paling  slightly  as  he  faced  about 
to  acknowledge  the  introduction. 

"Howdy,  Slone,"  drawled  Cordts,  with  hand  out 
stretched.  "I  sure  am  glad  to  meet  yuh.  I'd  like  to 
trade  the  Sage  King  for  this  red  stallion!" 

A  roar  of  laughter  greeted  this  sally,  all  but  Bostil  and 
Slone  joining  in.  The  joke  was  on  Bostil,  and  he  showed 
it.  Slone  did  not  even  smile. 

"Howdy,  Cordts,"  he  replied.  "I'm  glad  to  meet  you 
— so  I'll  know  you  when  I  see  you  again." 

"Wal,  we're  all  good  fellers  to-day,"  interposed  Bostil. 
* '  An*  now  let's  ride  home  an'  eat.  Slone,  you  come  with  me. ' ' 

The  group  slowly  mounted  the  slope  where  the  horses 
waited.  Macomber,  Wetherby,  Burthwait,  Blinn — all 
Bostil's  friends  proffered  their  felicitations  to  the  young 
rider,  and  all  were  evidently  prepossessed  with  him. 

The  sun  was  low  in  the  west;  purple  shades  were  blot 
ting  out  the  gold  lights  down  the  valley;  the  day  of  the 
great  races  was  almost  done.  Indians  were  still  scattered 
here  and  there  in  groups;  others  were  turning  out  the 
mustangs;  and  the  majority  were  riding  and  walking 
with  the  crowd  toward  the  village. 

191 


WILDFIRE 

Bostil  observed  that  Cordts  had  hurried  ahead  of  the 
group  and  now  appeared  to  be  saying  something  emphatic 
to  Dick  Sears  and  Hutchinson.  Bostil  heard  Cordts  curse. 
Probably  he  was  arraigning  the  sullen  Sears.  Cordts  had 
acted  first  rate — had  lived  up  to  his  word,  as  Bostil 
thought  he  would  do.  Cordts  and  Hutchinson  mounted 
their  horses  and  rode  off,  somewhat  to  the  left  of  the 
scattered  crowd.  But  Sears  remained  behind.  Bostil 
thought  this  strange  and  put  it  down  to  the  surliness  of 
the  fellow,  who  had  lost  on  the  races.  Bostil,  wishing 
Sears  would  get  out  of  his  sight,  resolved  never  to  make 
another  blunder  like  inviting  horse-thieves  to  a  race. 

All  the  horses  except  Wildfire  stood  in  a  bunch  back 
on  the  bench.  Sears  appeared  to  be  fussing  with  the 
straps  on  his  saddle.  And  Bostil  could  not  keep  his 
glance  from  wandering  back  to  gloat  over  Wildfire's  savage 
grace  and  striking  size. 

Suddenly  there  came  a  halt  in  the  conversation  of  the 
men,  a  curse  in  Holley's  deep  voice,  a  violent  split  in 
the  group.  Bostil  wheeled  to  see  Sears  in  a  menacing 
position  with  two  guns  leveled  low. 

"Don't  holler!"  he  called.     "An'  don't  move!" 

"What'n  the  h— 1  now,  Sears?"  demanded  Bostil. 

"I'll  bore  you  if  you  move — thet's  what!"  replied 
Sears.  His  eyes,  bold,  steely,  with  a  glint  that  Bostil 
knew,  vibrated  as  he  held  in  sight  all  points  before  him. 
A  vicious  little  sand-rattlesnake  about  to  strike! 

"Holley,  turn  yer  back!"  ordered  Sears. 

The  old  rider,  who  stood  foremost  of  the  group,  in 
stantly  obeyed,  with  hands  up.  He  took  no  chances 
here,  for  he  alone  packed  a  gun.  With  swift  steps  Sears 
moved,  pulled  Holley's  gun,  flung  it  aside  into  the  sage. 

"Sears,  it  ain't  a  hold-up!"  expostulated  Bostil.  The 
act  seemed  too  bold,  too  wild  even  for  Dick  Sears. 

"Ain't  it?"  scoffed  Sears,  malignantly.  "Bostil,  I  was 
after  the  King.  But  I  reckon  I'll  git  the  hoss  thet  beat 
him!" 

192 


WILDFIRE 

Bostil's  face  turned  dark-ttood  color  and  his  neck 
swelled.  "By  Gawd,  Sears!  You  ain't  a-goin'  to  steal 
this  boy's  hoss!" 

"Shut  up!"  hissed  the  horse-thief.  He  pushed  a  gun 
close  to  Bostil.  "I've  always  laid  fer  you!  I'm  achin' 
to  bore  you  now.  I  would  but  fer  scarin*  this  hoss.  If 
you  yap  again  I'll  kill  you,  anyhow,  an'  take  a  chance!" 

All  the  terrible  hate  and  evil  and  cruelty  and  deadli- 
ness  of  his  kind  burned  in  his  eyes  and  stung  in  his  voice. 

"Sears,  if  it's  my  horse  you  want  you  needn't  kill  Bos- 
til,"  spoke  up  Slone.  The  contrast  of  his  cool,  quiet 
voice  eased  the  terrible  strain. 

"Lead  him  round  hyar!"  snapped  Sears. 

Wildfire  appeared  more  shy  of  the  horses  back  of  him 
than  of  the  men.  Slone  was  able  to  lead  him,  however, 
to  within  several  paces  of  Sears.  Then  Slone  dropped  the 
reins.  He  still  held  a  lasso  which  was  loosely  coiled,  and 
the  loop  dropped  in  front  of  him  as  he  backed  away. 

Sears  sheathed  the  left-hand  gun.  Keeping  the  group 
covered  with  the  other,  he  moved  backward,  reaching  for 
the  hanging  reins.  Wildfire  snorted,  appeared  about  to 
jump.  But  Sears  got  the  reins.  Bostil,  standing  like  a 
stone,  his  companions  also  motionless,  could  not  help 
but  admire  the  daring  of  this  upland  horse-thief.  How 
was  he  to  mount  that  wild  stallion?  Sears  was  noted  for 
two  qualities — his  nerve  before  men  and  his  skill  with 
horses.  Assuredly  he  would  not  risk  an  ordinary  mount. 
Wildfire  began  to  suspect  Sears — to  look  at  him  instead 
of  the  other  horses.  Then  quick  as  a  cat  Sears  vaulted 
into  the  saddle.  Wildfire  snorted  and  lifted  his  forefeet 
in  a  lunge  that  meant  he  would  bolt. 

Sears  in  vaulting  up  had  swung  the  gun  aloft.  He 
swept  it  down,  but  waveringly,  for  Wildfire  had  begun 
to  rear. 

Bostil  saw  how  fatal  that  single  instant  would  have 
been  for  Sears  if  he  or  Holley  had  a  gun. 

Something  whistled.  Bostil  saw  the  leap  of  Slone's 

193 


WILDFIRE 

lasso — the  curling,  snaky  dart  of  the  noose  which  flew 
up  to  snap  around  Sears.  The  rope  sung  taut.  Sears 
was  swept  bodily  clean  from  the  saddle,  to  hit  the  ground 
in  sodden  impact. 

Almost  swifter  than  Bostil's  sight  was  the  action  of 
Slone — flashing  by — in  the  air — himself  on  the  p'unging 
horse.  Sears  shot  once,  twice.  Then  Wildfire  bolted  as 
his  rider  whipped  the  lasso  round  the  horn.  Sears,  half 
rising,  was  jerked  ten  feet.  An  awful  shriek  was  throttled 
in  his  throat. 

A  streak  of  dust  on  the  slope — a  tearing,  parting  line 
in  the  sage! 

Bostil  stood  amazed.  The  red  stallion  made  short 
plunges.  Slone  reached  low  for  the  tripping  reins. 
When  he  straightened  up  in  the  saddle  Wildfire  broke 
wildly  into  a  run. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Holley  that  at  this  thrilling, 
tragic  instant  he  walked  over  into  the  sage  to  pick  up 
his  gun. 

"Throwed  a  gun  on  me,  got  the  drop,  an'  pitched 
mine  away!"  muttered  Holley,  in  disgust.  The  way  he 
spoke  meant  that  he  was  disgraced. 

"My  Gawd!  I  was  scared  thet  Sears  would  get  the 
hoss!"  rolled  out  Bostil. 

Holley  thought  of  his  gun;  Bostil  thought  of  the  splen 
did  horse.  The  thoughts  were  characteristic  of  these 
riders.  The  other  men,  however,  recovering  from  a 
horror-broken  silence,  burst  out  in  acclaim  of  Slone's 
feat. 

* '  Dick  Sears's  finish !  Roped  by  a  boy  rider !' '  exclaimed 
Cal  Blinn,  fervidly. 

"Bostil,  that  rider  is  worthy  of  his  horse,"  said  Wether- 
by.  "I  think  Sears  would  have  bored  you.  I  saw  his 
finger  pressing — pressing  on  the  trigger.  Men  like  Sears 
can't  help  but  pull  at  that  stage." 

"Thet  was  the  quickest  trick  I  ever  seen,"  declared 
Macomber. 

194 


WILDFIRE 

They  watched  Wildfire  run  down  the  slope,  out  into 
the  valley,  with  a  streak  of  rising  dust  out  behind.  They 
all  saw  when  there  ceased  to  be  that  peculiar  rising  of 
dust.  Wildfire  appeared  to  shoot  ahead  at  greater  speed. 
Then  he  slowed  up.  The  rider  turned  him  and  faced 
back  toward  the  group,  coming  at  a  stiff  gallop.  Soon 
Wildfire  breasted  the  slope,  and  halted,  snorting,  shaking 
before  the  men.  The  lasso  was  still  trailing  out  behind, 
limp  and  sagging.  There  was  no  weight  upon  it  now. 

Bostil  strode  slowly  ahead.  He  sympathized  with  the 
tension  that  held  Slone;  he  knew  why  the  rider's  face 
was  gray,  why  his  lips  only  moved  mutely,  why  there 
was  horror  in  the  dark,  strained  eyes,  why  the  lean,  strong 
hands,  slowly  taking  up  the  lasso,  now  shook  like  leaves 
in  the  wind. 

There  was  only  dust  on  the  lasso.  But  Bostil  knew — 
they  all  knew  that  none  the  less  it  had  dealt  a  terrible 
death  to  the  horse-thief. 

Somehow  Bostil  could  not  find  words  for  what  he 
wanted  to  say.  He  put  a  hand  on  the  red  stallion — 
patted  his  shoulder.  Then  he  gripped  Slone  close  and 
hard.  He  was  thinking  how  he  would  have  gloried  in  a 
son  like  this  young,  wild  rider.  Then  he  again  faced  his 
comrades. 

" Fellers,  do  you  think  Cordts  was  in  on  thet  trick?" 
he  queried. 

"Nope.  Cordts  was  on  the  square,"  replied  Holley. 
"But  he  must  have  seen  it  comin'  an'  left  Sears  to  his 
fate.  It  sure  was  a  fittin'  last  ride  for  a  hoss-thief." 

Bostil  sent  Holley  and  Farlane  on  ahead  to  find  Cordts 
and  Hutchinson,  with  their  comrades,  to  tell  them  the 
fate  of  Sears,  and  to  warn  them  to  leave  before  the  news 
got  to  the  riders. 

The  sun  was  setting  golden  and  red  over  the  broken 
battlements  of  the  canons  to  the  west.  The  heat  of  the 
day  blew  away  on  a  breeze  that  bent  the  tips  of  the 
14  195 


WILDFIRE 

sage-brush.  A  wild  song  drifted  back  from  the  riders 
to  the  fore.  And  the  procession  of  Indians  moved  along, 
their  gay  trappings  and  bright  colors  beautiful  in  the 
fading  sunset  light. 

When  Bostil  and  his  guests  arrived  at  the  corrals, 
Holley,  with  Farlane  and  other  riders,  were  waiting. 

"Boss,"  said  Holley,  "Cordts  an'  his  outfit  never  rid 
in.  They  was  last  seen  by  some  Navajos  headin'  for 
the  canons." 

"Thet's  good!"  ejaculated  Bostil,  in  relief.  "Wai, 
boys,  look  after  the  hosses.  .  .  .  Slone,  just  turn  Wildfire 
over  to  the  boys  with  instructions,  an'  feel  safe." 

Farlane  scratched  his  head  and  looked  dubious.  "I'm 
wonderin'  how  safe  it  '11  be  fer  us." 

"I'll  look  after  him,"  said  Slone. 

Bostil  nodded  as  if  he  had  expected  Slone  to  refuse  to 
let  any  rider  put  the  stallion  away  for  the  night.  Wildfire 
would  not  go  into  the  barn,  and  Slone  led  him  into  one 
of  the  high-barred  corrals.  Bostil  waited,  talking  with 
his  friends,  until  Slone  returned,  and  then  they  went 
toward  the  house. 

"I  reckon  we  couldn't  get  inside  Brack's  place  now," 
remarked  Bostil.  "But  in  a  case  like  this  I  can  scare 
up  a  drink."  Lights  from  the  windows  shone  bright 
through  the  darkness  under  the  cottonwoods.  Bostil 
halted  at  the  door,  as  if  suddenly  remembering,  and  he 
whispered,  huskily:  "Let's  keep  the  women  from  learnin' 
about  Sears — to-night,  anyway." 

Then  he  led  the  way  through  the  big  door  into  the 
huge  living-room.  There  were  hanging-lights  on  the 
walls  and  blazing  sticks  on  the  hearth.  Lucy  came  run 
ning  in  to  meet  them.  It  did  not  escape  Bostil's  keen 
eyes  that  she  was  dressed  in  her  best  white  dress.  He 
liad  never  seen  her  look  so  sweet  and  pretty,  and,  for  that 
matter,  so  strange.  The  flush,  the  darkness  of  her  eyes,  the 
added  something  in  her  face,  tender,  thoughtful,  strong — 
these  were  new.  Bostil  pondered  while  she  welcomed  his 

196 


WILDFIRE 

guests.  Slone,  who  had  hung  back,  was  last  in  turn. 
Lucy  greeted  him  as  she  had  the  others.  Slone  met  her 
with  awkward  constraint.  The  gray  had  not  left  his 
face.  Lucy  looked  up  at  him  again,  and  differently. 

"What — what  has  happened?"  she  asked. 

It  annoyed  Bostil  that  Slone  and  all  the  men  suddenly 
looked  blank. 

"Why,  nothin',"  replied  Slone,  slowly,  '"cept  I'm  fagged 
out." 

Lucy,  or  any  other  girl,  could  have  seen  that  he  was 
evading  the  truth.  She  flashed  a  look  from  Slone  to  her 
father. 

"Until  to-day  we  never  had  a  big  race  that  something 
dreadful  didn't  happen,"  said  Lucy.  "This  was  my  day 
— my  race.  And,  oh !  I  wanted  it  to  pass  without — with 
out — " 

"Wai,  Lucy  dear,"  replied  Bostil,  as  she  faltered. 
"Nothin'  came  off  thet 'd  make  you  feel  bad.  Young 
Slone  had  a  scare  about  his  hoss.  Wildfire's  safe  out  there 
in  the  corral,  an'  he'll  be  guarded  like  the  King  an'  Sarch. 
Slone  needs  a  drink  an'  somethin'  to  eat,  same  as  all  of 
us." 

Lucy's  color  returned  and  her  smile,  but  Bostil  noted 
that,  while  she  was  serving  them  and  brightly  responsive 
to  compliments,  she  gave  more  than  one  steady  glance 
at  Slone.  She  was  deep,  thought  Bostil,  and  it  angered 
him  a  little  that  she  showed  interest  in  what  concerned 
this  strange  rider. 

Then  they  had  dinner,  with  twelve  at  table.  The  wives 
of  Bostil's  three  friends  had  been  helping  Aunt  Jane  pre 
pare  the  feast,  and  they  added  to  the  merriment.  Bostil 
was  not  much  given  to  social  intercourse — he  would  have 
preferred  to  be  with  his  horses  and  riders — but  this  night 
he  outdid  himself  as  host,  amazed  his  sister  Jane,  who 
evidently  thought  he  drank  too  much,  and  delighted 
Lucy.  Bostil's  outward  appearance  and  his  speech  and 
action  never  reflected  all  the  workings  of  his  mind.  No 

197 


WILDFIRE 

one  would  ever  know  the  depth  of  his  bitter  disappoint 
ment  at  the  outcome  of  the  race.  With  Creech's  Blue 
Roan  out  of  the  way,  another  horse,  swifter  and  more 
dangerous,  had  come  along  to  spoil  the  King's  chance. 
Bostil  felt  a  subtly  increasing  covetousness  in  regard  to 
Wildfire,  and  this  colored  all  his  talk  and  action.  The 
upland  country,  vast  and  rangy,  was  for  Bostil  too  small 
to  hold  Sage  King  and  Wildfire  unless  they  both  belonged 
to  him.  And  when  old  Cal  Blinn  gave  a  ringing  toast 
to  Lucy,  hoping  to  live  to  see  her  up  on  Wildfire  in  the 
grand  race  that  must  be  run  with  the  King,  Bostil  felt 
stir  in  him  the  birth  of  a  subtle,  bitter  fear.  At  first  he 
mocked  it.  He — Bostil — afraid  to  race!  It  was  a  lie 
of  the  excited  mind.  He  repudiated  it.  Insidiously  it 
returned.  He  drowned  it  down — smothered  it  with 
passion.  Then  the  ghost  of  it  remained,  hauntingly. 

After  dinner  Bostil  with  the  men  went  down  to  Brack- 
ton's,  where  Slone  and  the  winners  of  the  day  received 
their  prizes. 

"Why,  it's  more  money  than  I  ever  had  m  my 
whole  life!"  exclaimed  Slone,  gazing  incredulously  at 
the  gold. 

Bostil  was  amused  and  pleased,  and  back  of  both 
amusement  and  pleasure  was  the  old  inventive,  driving 
passion  to  gain  his  own  ends. 

Bostil  was  abnormally  generous  in  many  ways;  mon 
strously  selfish  in  one  way. 

"Slone,  I  seen  you  didn't  drink  none,"  he  said,  curi 
ously. 

"No;  I  don't  like  liquor." 

"Do  you  gamble?" 

"I  like  a  little  bet— on  a  race,"  replied  Slone,  frankly. 

"Wai,  thet  ain't  gamblin'.  These  fool  riders  of  mine 
will  bet  on  the  switchin'  of  a  hoss's  tail."  He  drew  Slone 
a  little  aside  from  the  others,  who  were  interested  in 
Brackton's  delivery  of  the  different  prizes.  "Slone, 
how'd  you  like  to  ride  for  me?" 

198 


WILDFIRE 

Slone  appeared  surprised.  "Why,  I  never  rode  for 
any  one,"  he  replied,  slowly.  "I  can't  stand  to  be  tied 
down.  I'm  a  horse-hunter,  you  know." 

Bostil  eyed  the  young  man,  wondering  what  he  knew 
about  the  difficulties  of  the  job  offered.  It  was  no  news 
to  Bostil  that  he  was  at  once  the  best  and  the  worst  man 
to  ride  for  jn  all  the  uplands. 

"Sure,  I  know.  But  thet  doesn't  make  no  difference," 
went  on  Bostil,  persuasively.  "If  we  got  along — wal, 
you'd  save  some  of  thet  yellow  coin  you're  jinglin'.  A 
roamin'  rider  never  builds  no  corral!" 

"Thank  you,  Bostil,"  replied  Slone,  earnestly.  "I'll 
think  it  over.  It  would  seem  kind  of  tame  now  to  go 
back  to  wild-horse  wranglin',  after  I've  caught  Wildfire. 
I'll  think  it  over.  Maybe  I'll  do  it,  if  you're  sure  I'm 
good  enough  with  rope  an'  horse." 

"Wal,  by  Gawd!"  blurted  out  Bostil.  "Holley  says 
he'd  rather  you  throwed  a  gun  on  him  than  a  rope!  So 
would  I.  An*  as  for  your  handlin'  a  hoss,  I  never  seen 
no  better." 

Slone  appeared  embarrassed  and  kept  studying  the 
gold  coins  in  his  palm.  Some  one  touched  Bostil,  who, 
turning,  saw  Brackton  at  his  elbow.  The  other  men  were 
now  bantering  with  the  Indians. 

"Come  now  while  I've  got  a  minnit,"  said  Brackton, 
taking  up  a  lantern.  "I've  somethin'  to  show  you." 

Bostil  followed  Brackton,  and  Slone  came  along.  The 
old  man  opened  a  door  into  a  small  room,  half  full  of 
stores  and  truck.  The  lantern  only  dimly  lighted  the 
place. 

"Look  thar!"  And  Brackton  flashed  the  light  upon 
a  man  lying  prostrate. 

Bostil  recognized  the  pale  face  of  Joel  Creech.  "Brack! 
.  .  .  What's  this?  Is  he  dead?"  Bostil  sustained  a 
strange,  incomprehensible  shock.  Sight  of  a  dead  man 
had  never  before  shocked  him. 

"Nope,  he  ain't  dead,  which  if  he  was  might  be  good 

199 


WILDFIRE 

for  this  community,"  replied  Brackton.  "He's  only 
fallen  in  a  fit.  Fust  off  I  reckoned  he  was  drunk.  But 
it  ain't  thet." 

"Wai,  what  do  you  want  to  show  him  to  me  for?"  de 
manded  Bostil,  gruffly. 

"I  reckoned  you  oughter  see  him." 

"An'  why,  Brackton?" 

Brackton  set  down  the  lantern  and,  pushing  Slone  out 
side,  said:  "Jest  a  minnit,  son,"  and  then  he  closed  the 
door.  "Joel's  been  on  my  hands  since  the  flood  cut  him 
off  from  home,"  said  Brackton.  "An*  he's  been  some 
trial.  But  nobody  else  would  have  done  nothin'  for  him, 
so  I  had  to.  I  reckon  I  felt  sorry  for  him.  He  cried 
like  a  baby  thet  had  lost  its  mother.  Then  he  gets  wild- 
lookin'  an'  raved  around.  When  I  wasn't  busy  I  kept  an 
eye  on  him.  But  some  of  the  time  I  couldn't,  an'  he 
stole  drinks,  which  made  him  wuss.  An'  when  I  seen 
he  was  tryin'  to  sneak  one  of  my  guns,  I  up  an'  gets 
suspicious.  Once  he  said,  '  My  dad's  hosses  are  goin'  to 
starve,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  kill  somebody  !'  He  was  out  of 
his  head  an'  dangerous.  Wai,  I  was  worried  some,  but 
all  I  could  do  was  lock  up  my  guns.  Last  night  I  caught 
him  confabin'  with  some  men  out  in  the  dark,  behind 
the  store.  They  all  skedaddled  except  Joel,  but  I  recog 
nized  Cordts.  I  didn't  like  this,  nuther.  Joel  was  surly 
an'  ugly.  An'  when  one  of  the  riders  called  him  he  said: 
'Thet  boat  never  drifted  off.  Per  the  night  of  the  flood 
I  went  down  there  myself  an'  tied  the  ropes.  They  never 
come  untied.  Somebody  cut  them — jest  before  the 
flood — to  make  sure  my  dad's  hosses  couldn't  be  crossed. 
Somebody  figgered  the  river  an'  the  flood.  An'  if  my 
dad's  hosses  starve  I'm  goin'  to  kill  somebody!'" 

Brackton  took  up  the  lantern  and  placed  a  hand  on 
the  door  ready  to  go  out. 

"Then  a  rider  punched  Joel — I  never  seen  who — an* 
Joel  had  a  fit.  I  dragged  him  in  here.  An'  as  you  see, 
he  ain't  come  to  yet." 

200 


WILDFIRE 

"Wai,  Brackton,  the  boy's  crazy,"  said  Bostil. 

"So  I  reckon.  An'  I'm  afeared  he'll  burn  us  out — 
he's  crazy  on  fires,  anyway — or  do  somethin'  like." 

"He's  sure  a  problem.  Wai,  we'll  see,"  replied  Bostil, 
soberly. 

And  they  went  out  to  find  Slone  waiting.  Then  Bostil 
called  his  guests,  and  with  Slone  also  accompanying  him, 
went  home. 

Bostil  threw  off  the  recurring  gloom,  and  he  was  good- 
natured  when  Lucy  came  to  his  room  to  say  good  night. 
He  knew  she  had  come  to  say  more  than  that. 

"Hello,  daughter!"  he  said.  "Aren't  you  ashamed  to 
come  facin'  your  poor  old  dad?" 

Lucy  eyed  him  dubiously.  "No,  I'm  not  ashamed. 
But  I'm  still  a  little— afraid." 

"I'm  harmless,  child.  I'm  a  broken  man.  When  you 
put  Sage  King  out  of  the  race  you  broke  me." 

"Dad,  that  isn't  funny.  You  make  me  an — angry 
when  you  hint  I  did  something  underhand." 

"Wai,  you  didn't  consult  me.1' 

"I  thought  it  would  be  fun  to  surprise  you  all.  Why, 
you're  always  delighted  with  a  surprise  in  a  race,  unless 
it  beats  you.  .  .  .  Then,  it  was  my  great  and  only  chance 
to  get  out  in  front  of  the  King.  Oh,  how  grand  it  'd 
have  been!  Dad,  I'd  have  run  away  from  him  the  same 
as  the  others!" 

"No,  you  wouldn't,"  declared  Bostil. 

"  Dad,  Wildfire  can  beat  the  King!" 

"Never,  girl!  Knockin'  a  good-tempered  boss  off  his 
pins  ain't  beatin'  him  in  a  runnin'-race." 

Then  father  and  daughter  fought  over  the  old  score, 
the  one  doggedly,  imperturbably,  the  other  spiritedly, 
with  flashing  eyes.  It  was  different  this  time,  however, 
for  it  ended  in  Lucy  saying  Bostil  would  never  risk  an 
other  race.  That  stung  Bostil,  and  it  cost  him  an  effort 
to  control  his  temper. 

201 


WILDFIRE 

"Let  thet  go  now.  Tell  me — all  about  how  you  saved 
Wildfire,  an'  Slone,  too." 

Lucy  readily  began  the  narrative,  and  she  had  scarcely 
started  before  Bostil  found  himself  intensely  interested. 
Soon  he  became  absorbed.  That  was  the  most  thrilling 
and  moving  kind  of  romance  to  him,  like  his  rider's 
dreams. 

"Lucy,  you're  sure  a  game  kid,"  he  said,  fervidly,  when 
she  had  ended.  "I  reckon  I  don't  blame  Slone  for  fallin* 
in  love  with  you." 

"Who  said  that?"  inquired  Lucy. 

" Nobody.     But  it's  true— ain't  it?" 

She  looked  up  with  eyes  as  true  as  ever  they  were, 
yet  a  little  sad,  he  thought,  a  little  wistful  and  wondering, 
as  if  a  strange  and  grave  thing  confronted  her. 

"Yes,  Dad — it's — it's  true,"  she  answered,  haltingly. 

"Wai,  you  didn't  need  to  tell  me,  but  I'm  glad  you 
did." 

Bostil  meant  to  ask  her  then  if  she  in  any  sense  returned 
the  rider's  love,  but  unaccountably  he  could  not  put  the 
question.  The  girl  was  as  true  as  ever — as  good  as  gold. 
Bostil  feared  a  secret  that  might  hurt  him.  Just  as  sure 
as  life  was  there  and  death  but  a  step  away,  some  rider, 
sooner  or  later,  would  win  this  girl's  love.  Bostil  knew 
that,  hated  it,  feared  it.  Yet  he  would  never  give  his 
girl  to  a  beggarly  rider.  Such  a  man  as  Wetherby  ought 
to  win  Lucy's  hand.  And  Bostil  did  not  want  to  know 
too  much  at  present ;  he  did  not  want  his  swift-mounting 
animosity  roused  so  soon.  Still  he  was  curious,  and,  want 
ing  to  get  the  drift  of  Lucy's  mind,  he  took  to  his  old 
habit  of  teasing. 

"Another  moonstruck  rider!"  he  said.  "Your  eyes 
are  sure  full  moons,  Lucy.  I'd  be  ashamed  to  trifle  with 
these  poor  fellers." 

"Dad!" 

"You're  a  heartless  flirt — same  as  your  mother  was  be 
fore  she  met  me" 

202 


WILDFIRE 

"I'm  not.  And  I  don't  believe  mother  was,  either,"' 
replied  Lucy.  It  was  easy  to  strike  fire  from  her. 

"Wai,  you  did  dead  wrong  to  ride  out  there  day  after 
day  meetin'  Slone,  because — young  woman — if  he  ever 
has  the  nerve  to  ask  me  for  you  I'll  beat  him  up  bad." 

"Then  you'd  be  a  brute!"  retorted  Lucy. 

"Wai,  mebbe,"  returned  Bostil,  secretly  delighted  and 
surprised  at  Lucy's  failure  to  see  through  him.  But  she 
was  looking  inward.  He  wondered  what  hid  there  deep 
in  her.  "But  I  can't  stand  for  the  nerve  of  thet." 

"He — he  means  to — to  ask  you." 

"Theh— A-huh!" 

Lucy  did  not  catch  the  slip  of  tongue.  She  was  flush 
ing  now.  "He  said  he'd  never  have  let  me  meet  him  out 
there  alone — unless — he — he  loved  me — and  as  our  neigh 
bors  and  the  riders  would  learn  of  it — and  talk — he 
wanted  you  and  them  to  know  he'd  asked  to — to  marry 
me." 

"Wai,  he's  a  square  young  man!"  ejaculated  Bostil, 
involuntarily.  It  was  hard  for  Bostil  to  hide  his  sin 
cerity  and  impulsiveness;  much  harder  than  to  hide  un 
worthy  attributes.  Then  he  got  back  on  the  other  track. 
"Thet  '11  make  me  treat  him  decent,  so  when  he  rides  up 
to  ask  for  you  I'll  let  him  off  with,  'No!'" 

Lucy  dropped  her  head.  Bostil  would  have  given  all 
he  had,  except  his  horses,  to  feel  sure  she  did  not  care  for 
Slone. 

"Dad— I  said — 'No' — for  myself,"  she  murmured. 

This  time  Bostil  did  not  withhold  the  profane  word 
of  surprise.  "...  So  he's  asked  you,  then?  Wai.  wal! 
When?" 

"To-day — out  there  in  the  rocks  where  he  waited  with 
Wildfire  for  me.  He— he— " 

Lucy  slipped  into  her  father's  arms,  and  her  slender 
form  shook.  Bostil  instinctively  felt  what  she  then 
needed  was  her  mother.  Her  mother  was  dead,  and  he 
was  only  a  rough,  old,  hard  rider.  He  did  not  know  what 

203 


WILDFIRE 

to  do — to  say.  His  heart  softened  and  he  clasped  her 
close.  It  hurt  him  keenly  to  realize  that  he  might  have 
been  a  better,  kinder  father  if  it  were  not  for  the  fear  that 
she  would  find  him  out.  But  that  proved  he  loved  her, 
craved  her  respect  and  affection. 

"Wai,  little  girl,  tell  me,"  he  said. 

"He — he  broke  his  word  to  me." 

"A-huh!    Thet's  too  bad.     An'  how  did  he?" 

"He — he — "     Lucy  seemed  to  catch  her  tongue. 

Bostil  was  positive  she  had  meant  to  tell  him  some 
thing  and  suddenly  changed  her  mind.  Subtly  the  child 
vanished — a  woman  remained.  Lucy  sat  up  self-pos 
sessed  once  more.  Some  powerfully  impelling  thought 
had  transformed  her.  Bostil's  keen  sense  gathered  that 
what  she  would  not  tell  was  not  hers  to  reveal.  For  her 
self,  she  was  the  soul  of  simplicity  and  frankness. 

"Days  ago  I  told  him  I  cared  for  him,"  she  went  on. 
"But  I  forbade  him  to  speak  of  it  to  me.  He  promised. 
I  wanted  to  wait  till  after  the  race — till  after  I  had  found 
courage  to  confess  to  you.  He  broke  his  word.  .  .  .  To 
day  when  he  put  me  up  on  Wildfire  he — ho  suddenly  lost 
his  head." 

The  slow  scarlet  welled  into  Lucy's  face  and  her  eyes 
grew  shamed,  but  bravely  she  kept  facing  her  father. 

"He — he  pulled  me  off — he  hugged  me — he  k-kissed 
me.  .  .  .  Oh,  it  was  dreadful — shameful ! .  .  .  Then  I  gave 
him  back — some — something  he  had  given  me.  And  I 
told  him  I — I  hated  him — and  I  told  him,  'No!'" 

"But  you  rode  his  hoss  in  the  race,"  said  Bostil. 

Lucy  bowed  her  head  at  that.     "I — I  couldn't  resist!" 

Bostil  stroked  the  bright  head.  What  a  quandary  for  a 
thick-skulled  old  horseman!  "Wai,  it  seems  to  me 
Slone  didn't  act  so  bad,  considerin'.  You'd  told  him  you 
cared  for  him.  If  it  wasn't  for  thet!  ...  I  remember  I 
did  much  the  same  to  your  mother.  She  raised  the  devil, 
but  I  never  seen  as  she  cared  any  less  for  me." 

"I'll  never  forgive  him,"  Lucy  cried,  passionately. 

204 


WILDFIRE 

"I  hate  him.  A  man  who  breaks  his  word  in  one  thing 
will  do  it  in  another." 

Bostil  sadly  realized  that  his  little  girl  had  reached 
womanhood  and  love,  and  with  them  the  sweet,  bitter 
pangs  of  life.  He  realized  also  that  here  was  a  crisis 
when  a  word — an  unjust  or  lying  word  from  him  would 
forever  ruin  any  hope  that  might  still  exist  for  Slone. 
Bostil  realized  this  acutely,  but  the  realization  was  not 
even  a  temptation. 

"Wai,  listen.  I'm  bound  to  confess  your  new  rider  is 
sure  swift.  An',  Lucy,  to-day  if  he  hadn't  been  as  swift 
with  a  rope  as  he  is  in  love — wal,  your  old  daddy  might 
be  dead!" 

She  grew  as  white  as  her  dress.  "Oh,  Dad!  I  knew 
something  had  happened,"  she  cried,  reaching  for  him. 

Then  Bostil  told  her  how  Dick  Sears  had  menaced  him 
— how  Slone  had  foiled  the  horse-thief.  He  told  the 
story  bluntly,  but  eloquently,  with  all  a  rider's  praise. 

Lucy  rose  with  hands  pressed  against  her  breast.  When 
had  Bostil  seen  eyes  like  those — dark,  shining,  wonder 
ful  ?  Ah !  he  remembered  her  mother's  once — only  once, 
as  a  girl. 

Then  Lucy  kissed  him  and  without  a  word  fled  from  the 
room. 

Bostil  stared  after  her.  "D — n  me!"  he  swore,  as  he 
threw  a  boot  against  the  wall.  "I  reckon  I'll  never  let 
her  marry  Slone,  but  I  just  had  to  tell  her  what  I  think 
of  him!" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

O  LONE  lay  wide  awake  under  an  open  window,  watch- 
O  ing  the  stars  glimmer  through  the  rustling  foliage  of 
the  cottonwoods.  Somewhere  a  lonesome  hound  bayed. 
Very  faintly  came  the  silvery  tinkle  of  running  water. 

For  five  days  Slone  had  been  a  guest  of  Bostil's,  and 
the  whole  five  days  had  been  torment. 

On  the  morning  of  the  day  after  the  races  Lucy  had 
confronted  him.  Would  he  ever  forget  her  eyes — her 
voice?  " Bless  you  for  saving  my  dad!"  she  had  said. 
"It  was  brave.  .  .  .  But  don't  let  dad  fool  you.  Don't 
believe  in  his  kindness.  Above  all,  don't  ride  for  him! 
He  only  wants  Wildfire,  and  if  he  doesn't  get  him  he'll 
hate  you!" 

That  speech  of  Lucy's  had  made  the  succeeding  days 
hard  for  Slone.  Bostil  loaded  him  with  gifts  and  kind 
nesses,  and  never  ceased  importuning  him  to  accept  his 
offers.  But  for  Lucy,  Slone  would  have  accepted.  It 
was  she  who  cast  the  first  doubt  of  Bostil  into  his  mind. 
Lucy  averred  that  her  father  was  splendid  and  good  in 
every  way  except  in  what  pertained  to  fast  horses;  there 
he  was  impossible. 

The  great  stallion  that  Slone  had  nearly  sacrificed  his 
life  to  catch  was  like  a  thorn  in  the  rider's  flesh.  Slone 
lay  there  in  the  darkness,  restless,  hot,  rolling  from  side 
to  side,  or  staring  out  at  the  star-studded  sky — miserably 
unhappy  all  on  account  of  that  horse.  Almost  he  hated 
him.  What  pride  he  had  felt  in  Wildfire!  How  he  had 
gloried  in  the  gift  of  the  stallion  to  Lucy!  Then,  on  the 
morning  of  the  race  had  come  that  unexpected,  incom- 

206 


WILDFIRE 

prehensible  and  wild  act  of  which  he  had  been  guilty. 
Yet  not  to  save  his  life,  his  soul,  could  he  regret  it!  Was 
it  he  who  had  been  responsible,  or  an  unknown  savage 
within  him?  He  had  kept  his  word  to  Lucy,  when  day 
after  day  he  had  burned  with  love  until  that  fatal  moment 
when  the  touch  of  her,  as  he  lifted  her  to  Wildfire's  saddle, 
had  made  a  madman  out  of  him.  He  had  swept  her  into 
his  arms  and  held  her  breast  to  his,  her  face  before  him, 
and  he  had  kissed  the  sweet,  parting  lips  till  he  was  blind. 

Then  he  had  learned  what  a  little  fury  she  was.  Then 
he  learned  how  he  had  fallen,  what  he  had  forfeited.  In 
his  amaze  at  himself,  in  his  humility  and  shame,  he  had 
not  been  able  to  say  a  word  in  his  own  defense.  She  did 
not  know  yet  that  his  act  had  been  ungovernable  and 
that  he  had  not  known  what  he  was  doing  till  too  late. 
And  she  had  finished  with:  "I'll  ride  Wildfire  in  the  race — 
but  I  won't  have  him — and  I  won't  have  you!  No!" 

She  had  the  steel  and  hardness  of  her  father. 

For  Slone,  the  watching  of  that  race  was  a  blend  of 
rapture  and  despair.  He  lived  over  in  mind  all  the  time 
between  the  race  and  this  hour  when  he  lay  there  sleep 
less  and  full  of  remorse.  His  mind  was  like  a  racecourse 
with  many  races;  and  predominating  in  it  was  that  swift, 
strange,  stinging  race  of  his  memory  of  Lucy  Bostil's 
looks  and  actions. 

What  an  utter  fool  he  was  to  believe  she  had  meant 
those  tender  words  when,  out  there  under  the  looming 
monuments,  she  had  accepted  Wildfire!  She  had  been 
an  impulsive  child.  Her  scorn  and  fury  that  morning  of 
the  race  had  left  nothing  for  him  except  footless  fancies. 
She  had  mistaken  love  of  Wildfire  for  love  of  him.  No, 
his  case  was  hopeless  with  Lucy,  and  if  it  had  not  been 
so  Bostil  would  have  made  it  hopeless.  Yet  there  were 
things  Slone  could  not  fathom — the  wilful,  contradictory, 
proud  and  cold  and  unaccountably  sweet  looks  and 
actions  of  the  girl.  They  haunted  Slone.  They  made  him 
conscious  he  had  a  mind  and  tortured  him  with  his  de- 

207 


WILDFIRE 

velopment.  But  he  had  no  experience  with  girls  to  com 
pare  with  what  was  happening  now.  It  seemed  that 
accepted  fact  and  remembered  scorn  and  cold  certainty 
were  somehow  at  variance  with  hitherto  unknown  intui 
tions  and  instincts.  Lucy  avoided  him,  if  by  chance  she 
encountered  him  alone.  When  Bostil  or  Aunt  Jane  or 
any  one  else  was  present  Lucy  was  kind,  pleasant,  agree 
able.  What  made  her  flush  red  at  sight  of  him  and  then 
pale?  Why  did  she  often  at  table  or  in  the  big  living- 
room  softly  brush  against  him  when  it  seemed  she  could 
have  avoided  that?  Many  times  he  had  felt  some  incon 
ceivable  drawing  power,  and  looked  up  to  find  her  eyes 
upon  him,  strange  eyes  full  of  mystery,  that  were  sud 
denly  averted.  Was  there  any  meaning  attachable  to 
the  fact  that  his  room  was  kept  so  tidy  and  neat,  that 
every  day  something  was  added  to  its  comfort  or  color, 
that  he  found  fresh  flowers  whenever  he  returned,  or  a 
book,  or  fruit,  or  a  dainty  morsel  to  eat,  and  once  a  bunch 
of  Indian  paint-brush,  wild  flowers  of  the  desert  that 
Lucy  knew  he  loved?  Most  of  all,  it  was  Lucy's  eyes 
which  haunted  Slone — eyes  that  had  changed,  darkened, 
lost  their  audacious  flash,  and  yet  seemed  all  the  sweeter. 
The  glances  he  caught,  which  he  fancied  were  stolen — 
and  then  derided  his  fancy — thrilled  him  to  his  heart. 
Thus  Slone  had  spent  waking  hours  by  day  and  night, 
mad  with  love  and  remorse,  tormented  one  hour  by 
imagined  grounds  for  hope  and  resigned  to  despair  the 
next. 

Upon  the  sixth  morning  of  his  stay  at  Bostil's  Slone 
rose  with  something  of  his  former  will  reasserting  itself. 
He  could  not  remain  in  Bostil's  home  any  longer  unless 
he  accepted  Bostil's  offer,  and  this  was  not  to  be  thought 
of.  With  a  wrench  Slone  threw  off  the  softening  inde 
cision  and  hurried  out  to  find  Bostil  while  the  determina 
tion  was  hot. 

Bostil  was  in  the  corral  with  Wildfire.  This  was  the 
second  time  Slone  had  found  him  there.  Wildfire  ap- 

208 


WILDFIRE 

peared  to  regard  Bostil  with  a  much  better  favor  than 
he  did  his  master.  As  Slone  noted  this  a  little  heat  stole 
along  his  veins.  That  was  gall  to  a  rider. 

"I  like  your  hoss,"  said  Bostil,  with  gruff  frankness. 
But  a  tinge  of  red  showed  under  his  beard. 

"Bostil,  I'm  sorry  I  can't  take  you  up  on  the  job,'* 
rejoined  Slone,  swiftly.  "It's  been  hard  for  me  to  de 
cide.  You've  been  good  to  me.  I'm  grateful.  But  it's 
time  I  was  tellin'  you." 

"Why  can't  you?"  demanded  Bostil,  straightening  up 
with  a  glint  in  his  big  eyes.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had 
asked  Slone  that. 

"I  can't  ride  for  you,"  replied  Slone,  briefly. 

"Anythin'  to  do  with  Lucy?"  queried  Bostil. 

"How  so?"  returned  Slone,  conscious  of  more  heat. 

"Wai,  you  was  sweet  on  her  an'  she  wouldn't  have 
you,"  replied  Bostil. 

Slone  felt  the  blood  swell  and  boil  in  his  veins.  This 
Bostil  could  say  as  harsh  and  hard  things  as  repute  gave 
him  credit  for. 

"Yes,  I  am  sweet  on  Lucy,  an'  she  won't  have  me," 
said  Slone,  steadily.  "I  asked  her  to  let  me  come  to  you 
an'  tell  you  I  wanted  to  marry  her.  But  she  wouldn't." 

"Wai,  it's  just  as  good  you  didn't  come,  because  I 
might.  .  .  ."  Bostil  broke  off  his  speech  and  began  again. 
"You  don't  lack  nerve,  Slone.  What  'd  you  have  to  offer 
Lucy?" 

"Nothin'  except—  But  that  doesn't  matter,"  replied 
Slone,  cut  to  the  quick  by  Bostil's  scorn.  I'm  glad  you 
know,  an'  so  much  for  that." 

Bostil  turned  to  look  at  Wildfire  once  more,  and  he 
looked  long.  When  he  faced  around  again  he  was  an 
other  man.  Slone  felt  the  powerful  driving  passion  of  this 
old  horse-trader. 

"Slone,  I'll  give  you  pick  of  a  hundred  mustangs  an* 
a  thousand  dollars  for  Wildfire!" 

So  he  unmasked  his  power  in  the  face  of  a  beggarly 

209 


WILDFIRE 

rider!  Though  it  struck  Slone  like  a  thunderbolt,  he  felt 
amused.  But  he  did  not  show  that.  Bostil  had  only  one 
possession,  among  all  his  uncounted  wealth,  that  could 
win  Wildfire  from  his  owner. 

"No,"  said  Slone,  briefly. 

"I'll  double  it,"  returned  Bostil,  just  as  briefly. 

"No!" 

"I'll—" 

"Save  your  breath,  Bostil,"  flashed  Slone.  "You  don't 
know  me.  But  let  me  tell  you — you  can't  buy  my  horse !" 

The  great  veins  swelled  and  churned  in  Bostil's  bull 
neck;  a  thick  and  ugly  contortion  worked  in  his  face; 
his  eyes  reflected  a  sick  rage. 

Slone  saw  that  two  passions  shook  Bostil — one,  a  bitter, 
terrible  disappointment,  and  the  other,  the  passion  of  a 
man  who  could  not  brook  being  crossed.  It  appeared 
to  Slone  that  the  best  thing  he  could  do  was  to  get  away 
quickly,  and  to  this  end  he  led  Wildfire  out  of  the  corral 
to  the  stable  courtyard,  and  there  quickly  saddled  him. 
Then  he  went  into  another  corral  for  his  other  horse, 
Nagger,  and,  bringing  him  out,  returned  to  find  Bostil 
had  followed  as  far  as  the  court.  The  old  man's  rage  ap 
parently  had  passed  or  had  been  smothered. 

"See  here,"  he  began,  in  thick  voice,  "don't  be  ad 

fool  an*  ruin  your  chance  in  life.     I'll — " 

"Bostil,  my  one  chance  was  ruined — an'  you  know  who 
did  it,"  replied  Slone,  as  he  gathered  Nagger's  rope  and 
Wildfire's  bridle  together.  "I've  no  hard  feelin's.  .  .  . 
But  I  can't  sell  you  my  horse.  An'  I  can't  ride  for  you — 
because — well,  because  it  would  breed  trouble." 

"An'  what  kind?"  queried  Bostil. 

Holley  and  Farlane  and  Van,  with  several  other  riders, 
had  come  up  and  were  standing  open-mouthed.  Slone 
gathered  from  their  manner  and  expression  that  anything 
might  happen  with  Bostil  in  such  a  mood. 

"We'd  be  racin'  the  King  an'  Wildfire,  wouldn't  we?" 
replied  Slone. 

210 


WILDFIRE 

"An*  supposin'  we  would?"  returned  Bostil,  ominously. 
His  huge  frame  vibrated  with  a  slight  start. 

"  Wildfire  would  run  off  with  your  favorite — an'  you 
wouldn't  like  that,"  answered  Slone.  It  was  his  rider's 
hot  blood  that  prompted  him  to  launch  this  taunt.  He 
could  not  help  it. 

"You  wild-hoss  chaser,"  roared  Bostil,  "your  Wildfire 
may  be  a  bloody  killer,  but  he  can't  beat  the  King  in 
a  race!" 

"Excuse  me,  Bostil,  but  Wildfire  did  beat  the  King!" 

This  was  only  adding  fuel  to  the  fire.  Slone  saw  Holley 
making  signs  that  must  have  meant  silence  would  be 
best.  But  Slone's  blood  was  up.  Bostil  had  rubbed  him 
the  wrong  way. 

"You're  a  liar!"  declared  Bostil,  with  a  tremendous 
stride  forward.  Slone  saw  then  how  dangerous  the  man 
really  was.  "It  was  no  race.  Your  wild  hoss  knocked 
the  King  off  the  track." 

"Sage  King  had  the  lead,  didn't  he?  Why  didn't  he 
keep  it?" 

Bostil  was  like  a  furious,  intractable  child  whose  fa 
vorite  precious  treasure  had  been  broken;  and  he  burst 
out  into  a  torrent  of  incoherent  speech,  apparently  reasons 
why  this  and  that  were  so.  Slone  did  not  make  out  what 
Bostil  meant  and  he  did  not  care.  When  Bostil  got 
out  of  breath  Slone  said: 

"We're  both  wastin'  talk.  An'  I'm  not  wantin'  you 
to  call  me  a  liar  twice.  .  .  .  Put  your  rider  up  on  the  King 
an'  come  on,  right  now.  I'll — " 

"Slone,  shut  up  an'  chase  yourself,"  interrupted  Hol 
ley. 

"You  go  to  h — 1!"  returned  Slone,  coolly. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  in  which  Slone  took 
Holley's  measure.  The  hawk-eyed  old  rider  may  have 
been  square,  but  he  was  then  thinking  only  of  Bostil. 

' '  What  am  I  up  against  here  ?"  demanded  Slone.  ' '  Am 
I  goin'  to  be  shot  because  I'm  takin'  my  own  part? 
15  211 


WILDFIRE 

Holley,  you  an'  the  rest  of  your  pards  are  all  afraid  of 
this  old  devil.  But  I'm  not — an'  you  stay  out  of  this." 

"Wai,  son,  you  needn't  git  r'iled,"  replied  Holley, 
placatingly.  "I  was  only  tryin'  to  stave  off  talk  you 
might  be  sorry  for." 

"Sorry  for  nothin' !  I'm  goin'  to  make  this  great  horse- 
trader,  this  rich  an'  mighty  rancher,  this  judge  of  grand 
horses,  this  Bostil!  ...  I'm  goin'  to  make  him  race  the 
King  or  take  water!"  Then  Slone  turned  to  Bostil. 
That  worthy  evidently  had  been  stunned  by  the  rider  who 
dared  call  him  to  his  face.  "  Come  on !  Fetch  the  King ! 
Let  your  own  riders  judge  the  race!" 

Bostil  struggled  both  to  control  himself  and  to  speak. 
"Naw!  I  ain't  goin'  to  see  thet  red  hoss-killer  jump  the 
King  again!" 

"Bah!  you're  afraid.  You  know  there'd  be  no  girl 
on  his  back.  You  know  he  can  outrun  the  King  an' 
that's  why  you  want  to  buy  him." 

Slone  caught  his  breath  then.  He  realized  suddenly, 
at  Bostil's  paling  face,  that  perhaps  he  had  dared  too 
much.  Yet,  maybe  the  truth  flung  into  this  hard  old 
rider's  teeth  was  what  he  needed  more  than  anything 
else.  Slone  divined,  rather  than  saw,  that  he  had  done 
an  unprecedented  thing. 

"I'll  go  now,  Bostil." 

Slone  nodded  a  good-by  to  the  riders,  and,  turning  away, 
he  led  the  two  horses  down  the  lane  toward  the  house. 
It  scarcely  needed  sight  of  Lucy  under  the  cottonwoods 
to  still  his  anger  and  rouse  his  regret.  Lucy  saw  him 
coming,  and,  as  usual,  started  to  avoid  meeting  him,  when 
sight  of  the  horses,  or  something  else,  caused  her  to  come 
toward  him  instead. 

Slone  halted.  Both  Wildfire  and  Nagger  whinnied  at 
sight  of  the  girl.  Lucy  took  one  flashing  glance  at  them, 
at  Slone,  and  then  she  evidently  guessed  what  was  amiss. 

"Lucy,  I've  done  it  now — played  hob,  sure,"  said 
Slone. 

212 


WILDFIRE 

"What?"  she  cried. 

"I  called  your  dad — called  him  good  an'  hard — an' 
he— he— " 

"Lin!  Oh,  don't  say  Dad."  Lucy's  face  whitened 
-and  she  put  a  swift  hand  upon  his  arm — a  touch  that 
thrilled  him.  "Lin!  there's  blood — on  your  face.  Don't 
—don't  tell  me  Dad  hit  you?" 

"I  should  say  not,"  declared  Slone,  quickly  lifting  his 
hand  to  his  face.  "Must  be  from  my  cut,  that  blood. 
I  barked  my  hand  holdin'  Wildfire." 

"  Oh !  I — I  was  sick  with — with — ' '  Lucy  faltered  and 
broke  off,  and  then  drew  back  quickly,  as  if  suddenly 
conscious  of  her  actions  and  words. 

Then  Slone  began  to  relate  everything  that  had  been 
said,  and  before  he  concluded  his  story  his  heart  gave  a 
wild  throb  at  the  telltale  face  and  eyes  of  the  girl. 

"You  said  that  to  Dad!"  she  cried,  in  amaze  and  fear 
and  admiration.  "Oh,  Dad  richly  deserved  it!  But  I 
wish  you  hadn't.  Oh,  I  wish  you  hadn't !" 

"Why?"  asked  Slone. 

But  she  did  not  answer  that.  "Where  are  you  going?" 
she  questioned. 

"Come  to  think  of  that,  I  don't  know,"  replied  Slone, 
blankly.  "I  started  back  to  fetch  my  things  out  of  my 
room.  That's  as  far  as  my  muddled  thoughts  got." 

"Your  things?  .  .  .  Oh!"  Suddenly  she  grew  intensely 
white.  The  little  freckles  that  had  been  so  indistinct  stood 
out  markedly,  and  it  was  as  if  she  had  never  had  any  tan. 
One  brown  hand  went  to  her  breast,  the  other  fluttered  to 
his  arm  again.  "You  mean  to — to  go  away — for  good?" 

"Sure.    What  else  can  I  do?" 

"Lin!  .  .  .  Oh,  there  comes  Dad!  He  mustn't  see  me. 
I  must  run.  .  .  .  Lin,  don't  leave  Bostil's  Ford — don't  go 
—don't!" 

Then  she  flew  round  the  corner  of  the  house,  to  disap 
pear.  Slone  stood  there  transfixed  and  thrilling.  Even 
Bostil's  heavy  tread  did  not  break  the  trance,  and  a  meet- 

213 


WILDFIRE 

ing  would  have  been  unavoidable  had  not  Bostil  turned 
down  the  path  that  led  to  the  back  of  the  house.  Slone, 
with  a  start  collecting  his  thoughts,  hurried  into  the  little 
room  that  had  been  his  and  gathered  up  his  few  belong 
ings.  He  was  careful  to  leave  behind  the  gifts  of  guns, 
blankets,  gloves,  and  other  rider's  belongings  which  Bostil 
had  presented  to  him.  Thus  laden,  he  went  outside  and, 
tingling  with  emotions  utterly  sweet  and  bewildering,  he 
led  the  horses  down  into  the  village. 

Slone  went  down  to  Brackton's,  and  put  the  horses  into 
a  large,  high-fenced  pasture  adjoining  Brackton's  house. 
Slone  felt  reasonably  sure  his  horses  would  be  safe  there, 
but  he  meant  to  keep  a  mighty  close  watch  on  them. 
And  old  Brackton,  as  if  he  read  Slone's  mind,  said  this: 
"Keep  your  eye  on  thet  daffy  boy,  Joel  Creech.  He  hangs 
round  my  place,  sleeps  out  somewheres,  an'  he's  crazy 
about  hosses." 

Slone  did  not  need  any  warning  like  that,  nor  any  in 
formation  to  make  him  curious  regarding  young  Creech. 
Lucy  had  seen  to  that,  and,  in  fact,  Slone  was  anxious  to 
meet  this  half-witted  fellow  who  had  so  grievously  offended 
and  threatened  Lucy.  That  morning,  however,  Creech 
did  not  put  in  an  appearance.  The  village  had  nearly 
returned  to  its  normal  state  now,  and  the  sleepy  tenor 
of  its  way.  The  Indians  had  been  the  last  to  go,  but  now 
none  remained.  The  days  were  hot  while  the  sun  stayed 
high,  and  only  the  riders  braved  its  heat. 

The  morning,  however,  did  not  pass  without  an  inter 
esting  incident.  Brackton  approached  Slone  with  an 
offer  that  he  take  charge  of  the  freighting  between  the 
Ford  and  Durango.  "What  would  I  do  with  Wildfire?" 
was  Slone's  questioning  reply,  and  Brackton  held  up  his 
hands.  A  later  incident  earned  more  of  Slone's  attention. 
He  had  observed  a  man  in  Brackton's  store,  and  it  chanced 
that  this  man  heard  Slone's  reply  to  Brackton's  offer, 
and  he  said:  "You'll  sure  need  to  corral  thet  red  stal 
lion.  Grandest  hoss  I  ever  seen!" 

214 


WILDFIRE 

That  praise  won  Slone,  and  he  engaged  in  conversation 
with  the  man,  who  said  his  name  was  Vorhees.  It  de 
veloped  soon  that  Vorhees  owned  a  little  house,  a  corral, 
and  a  patch  of  ground  on  a  likely  site  up  under  the  bluff, 
and  he  was  anxious  to  sell  cheap  because  he  had  a  fine 
opportunity  at  Durango,  where  his  people  lived.  What 
interested  Slone  most  was  the  man's  remark  that  he  had 
a  corral  which  *tuld  not  be  broken  into.  The  price  he 
asked  was  ridieulously  low  if  the  property  was  worth  any 
thing.  An  idea  flashed  across  Slone's  mind.  He  went 
up  to  Vorhees' s  place  and  was  much  pleased  with  every 
thing,  especially  the  corral,  which  had  been  built  by  a 
man  who  feared  horse-thieves  as  much  as  Bostil.  The 
view  from  the  door  of  the  little  cabin  was  magnificent 
beyond  compare.  Slone  remembered  Lucy's  last  words. 
They  rang  like  bells  in  his  ears.  " Don't  go — don't!" 
They  were  enough  to  chain  him  to  Bostil's  Ford  until  the 
crack  of  doom.  He  dared  not  dream  of  what  they  meant. 
He  only  listened  to  their  music  as  they  pealed  over  and 
over  in  his  ears. 

"Vorhees,  are  you  serious?"  he  asked.  "The  money 
you  ask  is  little  enough." 

"It's  enough  an'  to  spare,"  replied  the  man.  "An'  I'd 
take  it  as  a  favor  of  you." 

"Well,  I'll  go  you,"  said  Slone,  and  he  laughed  a  little 
irrationally.  "Only  you  needn't  tell  right  away  that  I 
bought  you  out." 

The  deal  was  consummated,  leaving  Slone  still  with  half 
of  the  money  that  had  been  his  prize  in  the  race.  He  felt 
elated.  He  was  rich.  He  owned  two  horses — one  the 
grandest  in  all  the  uplands,  the  other  the  faithfulest — 
and  he  owned  a  neat  little  cabin  where  it  was  a  joy  to 
sit  and  look  out,  and  a  corral  which  would  let  him  sleep 
at  night,  and  he  had  money  to  put  into  supplies  and 
furnishings,  and  a  garden.  After  he  drank  out  of  the 
spring  that  bubbled  from  under  the  bluff  he  told  himself 
it  alone  was  worth  the  money. 

215 


WILDFIRE 

"Looks  right  down  on  Bostil's  place,"  Slone  solilo 
quized,  with  glee.  "Won't  he  just  be  mad!  An'  Lucy! 
.  .  .  Whatever's  she  goin'  to  think?" 

The  more  Slone  looked  around  and  thought,  the  more 
he  became  convinced  that  good  fortune  had  knocked  at 
his  door  at  last.  And  when  he  returned  to  Brackton's 
he  was  in  an  exultant  mood.  The  old  storekeeper  gave 
him  a  nudge  and  pointed  underhand  to  a  young  man  of 
ragged  aspect  sitting  gloomily  on  a  box.  Slone  recog 
nized  Joel  Creech.  The  fellow  surely  made  a  pathetic 
sight,  and  Slone  pitied  him.  He  looked  needy  and 
hungry. 

"Say,"  said  Slone,  impulsively,  "want  to  help  me 
carry  some  grub  an'  stuff?" 

"Howdy!"  replied  Creech,  raising  his  head.  "Sure 
do." 

Slone  sustained  the  queerest  shock  of  his  life  when  he 
met  the  gaze  of  those  contrasting  eyes.  Yet  he  did  not 
believe  that  his  strange  f eeling  came  from  sight  of  different- 
colored  eyes.  There  was  an  instinct  or  portent  in  that 
meeting. 

He  purchased  a  bill  of  goods  from  Brackton,  and,  with 
Creech  helping,  carried  it  up  to  the  cabin  under  the  bluff. 
Three  trips  were  needed  to  pack  up  all  the  supplies,  and 
meanwhile  Creech  had  but  few  words  to  say,  and  these  of 
no  moment.  Slone  offered  him  money,  which  he  refused. 

'Til  help  you  fix  up,  an'  eat  a  bite,"  he  said.  "Nice 
up  hyar." 

He  seemed  rational  enough  and  certainly  responded  to 
kindness.  Slone  found  that  Vorhees  had  left  the  cabin 
so  clean  there  was  little  cleaning  to  do.  An  open  fire 
place  of  stone  required  some  repair  and  there  was  wood 
to  cut. 

"Joel,  you  start  a  fire  while  I  go  down  after  my  horses," 
said  Slone. 

Young  Creech  nodded  and  Slone  left  him  there.  It  was 
not  easy  to  catch  Wildfire,  nor  any  easier  to  get  him  into 

216 


WILDFIRE 

the  new  corral;  but  at  last  Slone  saw  him  safely  there. 
And  the  bars  and  locks  on  the  gate  might  have  defied 
any  effort  to  open  or  break  them  quickly.  Creech  was 
standing  in  the  doorway,  watching  the  horses,  and  some 
how  Slone  saw,  or  imagined  he  saw,  that  Creech  wore 
a  different  aspect. 

"Grand  wild  hoss!  He  did  what  Blue  was  a-goin'  to 
do— beat  thet  there  d— d  Bostil's  King!" 

Creech  wagged  his  head.  He  was  gloomy  and  strange. 
His  eyes  were  unpleasant  to  look  into.  His  face  changed. 
And  he  mumbled.  Slone  pitied  him  the  more,  but 
wished  to  see  the  last  of  him.  Creech  stayed  on,  however, 
and  grew  stranger  and  more  talkative  during  the  meal. 
He  repeated  things  often — talked  disconnectedly,  and  gave 
other  indications  that  he  was  not  wholly  right  in  his 
mind.  Yet  Slone  suspected  that  Creech's  want  of  bal 
ance  consisted  only  in  what  concerned  horses  and  the 
Bostils.  And  Slone,  wanting  to  learn  all  he  could,  en 
couraged  Creech  to  talk  about  his  father  and  the  racers 
and  the  river  and  boat,  and  finally  Bostil. 

Slone  became  convinced  that,  whether  young  Creech 
was  half  crazy  or  not,  he  knew  his  father's  horses  were 
doomed,  and  that  the  boat  at  the  ferry  had  been  cut  adrift. 
Slone  could  not  understand  why  he  was  convinced,  but 
he  was.  Finally  Creech  told  how  he  had  gone  down  to 
the  river  only  a  day  before;  how  he  had  found  the  flood 
still  raging,  but  much  lower;  how  he  had  worked  round 
the  cliffs  and  had  pulled  up  the  rope  cables  to  find  they 
had  been  cut. 

"You  see,  Bostil  cut  them  when  he  didn't  need  to," 
continued  Creech,  shrewdly.  "But  he  didn't  know  the 
flood  was  comin'  down  so  quick.  He  was  afeared  we'd 
come  across  an'  git  the  boat  thet  night.  An'  he  meant 
to  take  away  them  cut  cables.  But  he  hadn't  no 
time." 

"Bostil?"  queried  Slone,  as  he  gazed  hard  at  Creech. 
The  fellow  had  told  that  rationally  enough.  Slone  won- 

217 


WILDFIRE 

dered  if  Bostil  could  have  been  so  base.  No!  and  yet — 
when  it  came  to  horses  Bostil  was  scarcely  human. 

Slone's  query  served  to  send  Creech  off  on  another 
tangent  which  wound  up  in  dark,  mysterious  threats. 
Then  Slone  caught  the  name  of  Lucy.  It  abruptly  killed 
his  sympathy  for  Creech. 

"What's  the  girl  got  to  do  with  it?"  he  demanded, 
angrily.  "If  you  want  to  talk  to  me  don't  use  her 
name." 

"I'll  use  her  name  when  I  want,"  shouted  Creech. 

"Not  tome!" 

"Yes,  to  you,  mister.  I  ain't  carin'  a  d — n  fer 
you!" 

"You  crazy  loon!"  exclaimed  Slone,  with  impatience 
and  disgust  added  to  anger.  "What's  the  use  of  being 
decent  to  you?" 

Creech  crouched  low,  his  hands  digging  like  claws  into 
the  table,  as  if  he  were  making  ready  to  spring.  At  that 
instant  he  was  hideous. 

"Crazy,  am  I?"  he  yelled.  "Mebje  not  d — n  crazy! 
I  kin  tell  you're  gone  on  Lucy  Bostil!  I  seen  you  with 
her  out  there  in  the  rocks  the  mornin'  of  the  race.  I 
seen  what  you  did  to  her.  An*  I'm  a-goin'  to  tell  it!  ... 
An'  I'm  a-goin'  to  ketch  Lucy  Bostil  an'  strip  her 
naked,  an*  when  I  git  through  with  her  I'll  tie  her  on  a 
boss  an'  fire  the  grass !  By  Gawd !  I  am !' '  Livid  and  wild, 
he  breathed  hard  as  he  got  up,  facing  Slone  malignantly. 

"Crazy  or  not,  here  goes!"  muttered  Slone,  grimly; 
and,  leaping  up,  with  one  blow  he  knocked  Creech  half 
out  of  the  door,  and  then  kicked  him  the  rest  of  the  way. 
"Go  on  and  have  a  fit!"  cried  Slone.  "I'm  liable  to  kill 
you  if  you  don't  have  one!" 

Creech  got  up  and  ran  down  the  path,  turning  twice 
on  the  way.  Then  he  disappeared  among  the  trees. 

Slone  sat  down.  "Lost  my  temper  again!"  he  said. 
"This  has  been  a  day.  Guess  I'd  better  cool  off  right  now 
an'  stay  here.  .  .  .  That  poor  devil!  Maybe  he's  not  so 

218 


WILDFIRE 

crazy.  But  he's  wilder  than  an  Indian.  I  must  warn 
Lucy.  .  .  .  Lord!  I  wonder  if  Bostil  could  have  held  back 
repairin'  that  boat,  an'  then  cut  it  loose?  I  wonder? 
Yesterday  I'd  have  sworn  never.  To-day — " 

Slone  drove  the  conclusion  of  that  thought  out  of  his 
consciousness  before  he  wholly  admitted  it.  Then  he  set 
to  work  cutting  the  long  grass  from  the  wet  and  shady 
nooks  under  the  bluff  where  the  spring  made  the  ground 
rich.  He  carried  an  armful  down  to  the  corral.  Nagger 
was  roaming  around  outside,  picking  grass  for  himself. 
Wildfire  snorted  as  always  when  he  saw  Slone,  and  Slone 
as  always,  when  time  permitted,  tried  to  coax  the  stallion 
to  him.  He  had  never  succeeded,  nor  did  he  this  time. 
When  he  left  the  bundle  of  grass  on  the  ground  and  went 
outside  Wildfire  readily  came  for  it. 

"You're  that  tame,  anyhow,  you  hungry  red  devil," 
said  Slone,  jealously.  Wildfire  would  take  a  bunch  of 
grass  from  Lucy  Bostil's  hand.  Slone's  feelings  had 
undergone  some  reaction,  though  he  still  loved  the  horse. 
But  it  was  love  mixed  with  bitterness.  More  than  ever 
he  made  up  his  mind  that  Lucy  should  have  Wildfire. 
Then  he  walked  around  his  place,  planning  the  work  he 
meant  to  start  at  once. 

Several  days  slipped  by  with  Slone  scarcely  realizing 
how  they  flew.  Unaccustomed  labor  tired  him  so  that 
he  went  to  bed  early  and  slept  like  a  log.  If  it  had  not 
been  for  the  ever-present  worry  and  suspense  and  longing, 
in  regard  to  Lucy,  he  would  have  been  happier  than  ever 
he  could  remember.  Almost  at  once  he  had  become  at 
tached  to  his  little  home,  and  the  more  he  labored  to  make 
it  productive  and  comfortable  the  stronger  grew  his  at 
tachment.  Practical  toil  \ras  not  conducive  to  day 
dreaming,  so  Slone  felt  a  loss  of  something  vague  and 
sweet.  Many  times  he  caught  himself  watching  with 
eager  eyes  for  a  glimpse  of  Lucy  Bostil  down  there  among 
the  cottonwoods.  Still,  he  never  saw  her,  and,  in  fact, 
he  saw  so  few  villagers  that  the  place  began  to  have  a 

219 


WILDFIRE 

loneliness  which  endeared  it  to  him  the  more.  Then 
the  view  down  the  gray  valley  to  the  purple  monuments 
was  always  thrillingly  memorable  to  Slone.  It  was  out 
there  Lucy  had  saved  his  horse  and  his  life.  His  keen 
desert  gaze  could  make  out  even  at  that  distance  the 
great,  dark  monument,  gold-crowned,  in  the  shadow  of 
which  he  had  heard  Lucy  speak  words  that  had  trans 
formed  life  for  him.  He  would  ride  out  there  some  day. 
The  spell  of  those  looming  grand  shafts  of  colored  rock 
was  still  strong  upon  him. 

One  morning  Slone  had  a  visitor — old  Brackton. 
Slone's  cordiality  died  on  his  lips  before  it  was  half  ut 
tered.  Brackton 's  former  friendliness  was  not  in  evidence ; 
indeed,  he  looked  at  Slone  with  curiosity  and  disfavor. 

"  Howdy,  Slone !  I  jest  wanted  to  see  what  you  was  doin' 
up  hyar,"  he  said. 

Slone  spread  his  nands  and  explained  in  few  words. 

"So  you  took  over  the  place,  hey?  We  all  figgered 
thet.  But  Vorhees  was  mum.  Fact  is,  he  was  sure 
mysterious."  Brackton  sat  down  and  eyed  Slone  with 
interest.  "Folks  are  talkin'  a  lot  about  you,"  he  said, 
bluntly. 

"Is  that  so?" 

"You  'pear  to  be  a  pretty  mysterious  kind  of  a  feller, 
Slone.  I  kind  of  took  a  shine  to  you  at  first,  an'  thet's 
why  I  come  up  hyar  to  tell  you  it  'd  be  wise  f er  you  to 
vamoose." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Slone. 

Brackton  repeated  substantially  what  he  had  said, 
then,  pausing  an  instant,  continued:  "I've  no  call  to 
give  you  a  hunch,  but  I'll  do  it  jest  because  I  did  like 
you  fust  off." 

The  old  man  seemed  fussy  and  nervous  and  patronizing 
and  disparaging  all  at  once. 

"What  'd  you  beat  up  thet  poor  Joel  Creech  fer?"  de 
manded  Brackton. 

"He  got  what  he  deserved,"  replied  Slone,  and  the 

220 


WILDFIRE 

memory,  coming  on  the  head  of  this  strange  attitude  of 
Brackton's,  roused  Slone's  temper. 

"Wai,  Joel  tells  some  queer  things  about  you — fer 
instance,  how  you  took  advantage  of  little  Lucy  Bostil, 
grabbin'  her  an'  maulin'  her  the  way  Joel  seen  you." 

"D — n  the  loon!"  muttered  Slone,  rising  to  pace  the 
path. 

"Wai,  Joel's  a  bit  off,  but  he's  not  loony  all  the  time. 
He's  seen  you  an'  he's  tellin'  it.  When  Bostil  hears  it 
you'd  better  be  acrost  the  canon!" 

Slone  felt  the  hot,  sick  rush  of  blood  to  his  face,  and 
humiliation  and  rage  overtook  him. 

"Joel's  down  at  my  house.  He  had  fits  after  you  beat 
him,  an'  he  'ain't  got  over  them  yet.  But  he  could  blab 
to  the  riders.  Van  Sickle's  lookin'  fer  you.  An'  to-day 
when  I  was  alone  with  Joel  he  told  me  some  more  queer 
things  about  you.  I  shut  him  up  quick.  But  I  ain't 
guaranteein'  I  can  keep  him  shut  up." 

"I'll  bet  you  I  shut  him  up,"  declared  Slone.  "What 
more  did  the  fool  say?" 

"Slone,  hev  you  been  round  these  hyar  parts — down 
among  the  monuments — fer  any  considerable  time?" 
queried  Brackton. 

"Yes,  I  have — several  weeks  out  there,  an*  about  ten 
days  or  so  around  the  Ford." 

"Where  was  you  the  night  of  the  flood?" 

The  shrewd  scrutiny  of  the  old  man,  the  suspicion, 
angered  Slone. 

'  If  it's  any  of  your  mix,  I  was  out  on  the  slope  among 
the  rocks.  I  heard  that  flood  comin'  down  long  before 
it  got  here,"  replied  Slone,  deliberately. 

Brackton  averted  his  gaze,  and  abruptly  rose  as  if  the 
occasion  was  ended.  "Wai,  take  my  hunch  an'  leave!" 
he  said,  turning  away. 

"Brackton,  if  you  mean  well,  I'm  much  obliged,"  re 
turned  Slone,  slowly,  ponderingly.  "But  I'll  not  take 
the  hunch." 

221 


WILDFIRE 

"Suit  yourself,"  added  Brackton,  coldly,  and  he  went 
away. 

Slone  watched  him  go  down  the  path  and  disappear 
in  the  lane  of  cottonwoods. 

"I'll  be  darned!"  muttered  Slone.  "Funny  old  man. 
Maybe  Creech's  not  the  only  loony  one  hereabouts." 

Slone  tried  to  laugh  off  the  effect  of  the  interview,  but 
it  persisted  and  worried  him  all  day.  After  supper  he  de 
cided  to  walk  down  into  the  village,  and  would  have 
done  so  but  for  the  fact  that  he  saw  a  man  climbing  his 
path.  When  he  recognized  the  rider  Holley  he  sensed 
trouble,  and  straightway  he  became  gloomy.  Bostil's 
right-hand  man  could  not  call  on  him  for  any  friendly 
reason.  Holley  came  up  slowly,  awkwardly,  after  the 
manner  of  a  rider  unused  to  walking.  Slone  had  built 
a  little  porch  on  the  front  of  his  cabin  and  a  bench, 
which  he  had  covered  with  goatskins.  It  struck  him  a 
little  strangely  that  he  should  bend  over  to  rearrange 
these  skins  just  as  Holley  approached  the  porch. 

"Howdy,  son!"  was  the  rider's  drawled  remark.  "Sure 
makes — me — puff  to  climb — up  this  mountain." 

Slone  turned  instantly,  surprised  at  the  friendly  tone, 
doubting  his  own  ears,  and  wanting  to  verify  them.  He 
was  the  more  surprised  to  see  Holley  unmistakably 
amiable. 

"Hello,  Holley!  How  are  you?"  he  replied.  "Have  a 
seat." 

"Wai,  I'm  right  spry  fer  an  old  bird.  But  I  can't 
climb  wuth  a  d — n ....  Say,  this  here  beats  Bostil's 
view." 

"Yes,  it's  fine,"  replied  Slone,  rather  awkwardly,  as 
he  sat  down  on  the  porch  step.  What  could  Holley 
want  with  him?  This  old  rider  was  above  curiosity  or 
gossip. 

"Slone,  you  ain't  holdin'  it  ag'in  me — thet  I  tried  to 
shut  you  up  the  other  day?"  he  drawled,  with  dry  frank 
ness. 

222 


WILDFIRE 

"Why,  no,  Holley,  I'm  not.  I  saw  your  point.  You 
were  right.  But  Bostil  made  me  mad." 

" Sure!  He'd  make  anybody  mad.  I've  seen  riders  bite 
themselves,  they  was  so  mad  at  Bostil.  You  called  him, 
an'  you  sure  tickled  all  the  boys.  But  you  hurt  yourself, 
fer  Bostil  owns  an'  runs  this  here  Ford." 

"So  I've  discovered,"  replied  Slone. 

"You  got  yourself  in  bad  right  off,  fer  Bostil  has 
turned  the  riders  ag'in  you,  an'  this  here  punchin'  of 
Creech  has  turned  the  village  folks  ag'in  you.  What  'd 
you  pitch  into  him  fer?" 

Slone  caught  the  kindly  interest  and  intent  of  the  rider, 
and  it  warmed  him  as  Brackton's  disapproval  had  alien 
ated  him. 

"Wai,  I  reckon  I'd  better  tell  you,"  drawled  Holley, 
as  Slone  hesitated,  "thet  Lucy  wants  to  know  if  you  beat 
up  Joel  an'  why  you  did." 

"Holley!    Did  she  ask  you  to  find  out?" 

"She  sure  did.  The  girl's  worried  these  days,  Slone. . . . 
You  see,  you  haven't  been  around,  an'  you  don't  know 
what's  comin'  off." 

"Brackton  was  here  to-day  an'  he  told  me  a  good  deal. 
I'm  worried,  too,"  said  Slone,  dejectedly. 

"Thet  hoss  of  yours,  Wildfire,  he's  enough  to  make 
you  hated  in  Bostil's  camp,  even  if  you  hadn't  made  a 
fool  of  yourself,  which  you  sure  have." 

Slone  dropped  his  head  as  admission. 

"What  Creech  swears  he  seen  you  do  to  Miss  Lucy, 
out  there  among  the  rocks,  where  you  was  hid  with  Wild 
fire — is  there  any  truth  in  thet?"  asked  Holley,  earnest 
ly.  ' '  Tell  me,  Slone.  Folks  believe  it.  An'  it's  hurt  you 
at  the  Ford.  Bostil  hasn't  heard  it  yet,  an'  Lucy  she 
doesn't  know.  But  I'm  figgerin'  thet  you  punched  Joel 
because  he  throwed  it  in  your  face." 

"He  did,  an'  I  lambasted  him,"  replied  Slone,  with  force. 

"You  did  right.  But  what  I  want  to  know,  is  it  true 
what  Joel  seen?" 

223 


WILDFIRE 

"It's  true,  Holley.  But  what  I  did  isn't  so  bad— so 
bad  as  he'd  make  it  look." 

"Wai,  I  knowed  thet.  I  knowed  fer  a  long  time  how 
Lucy  cares  fer  you,"  returned  the  old  rider,  kindly. 

Slone  raised  his  head  swiftly,  incredulously.  "Holley! 
You  can't  be  serious." 

"Wai,  I  am.  I've  been  sort  of  a  big  brother  to  Lucy 
Bostil  for  eighteen  years.  I  carried  her  in  these  here 
hands  when  she  weighed  no  more'n  my  spurs.  I  taught 
her  how  to  ride — what  she  knows  about  hosses.  An'  she 
knows  more'n  her  dad.  I  taught  her  to  shoot.  I  know 
her  better  'n  anybody.  An*  lately  she's  been  different. 
She's  worried  an'  unhappy." 

"But  Holley,  all  that— it  doesn't  seem—" 

"I  reckon  not,"  went  on  Holley,  as  Slone  halted.  "I 
think  she  cares  fer  you.  An'  I'm  your  friend,  Slone. 
You're  goin'  to  buck  up  ag'in  some  hell  round  here  sooner 
or  later.  An'  you'll  need  a  friend." 

"Thanks— Holley,"  replied  Slone,  unsteadily.  He 
thrilled  under  the  iron  grasp  of  the  rider's  hard  hand. 

"You've  got  another  friend  you  can  gamble  on,"  said 
Holley,  significantly. 

"Another!    Who?" 

"  Lucy  Bostil.  An'  don't  you  fergit  thet.  I'll  bet  she'll 
raise  more  trouble  than  Bostil  when  she  hears  what  Joel 
Creech  is  tellin'.  Fer  she's  bound  to  hear  it.  Van  Sickle 
swears  he's  a-goin'  to  tell  her  an'  then  beat  you  up  with 
a  quirt." 

"He  is,  is  he?"  snapped  Slone,  darkly. 

"I've  a  hunch  Lucy's  guessed  why  you  punched  Joel. 
But  she  wants  to  know  fer  sure.  Now,  Slone,  I'll  tell 
her  why." 

"Oh,  don't!"  said  Slone,  involuntarily. 

"Wai,  it  '11  be  better  comin*  from  you  an'  me.  Take 
my  word  fer  thet.  I'll  prepare  Lucy.  An'  she's  as  good 
a  scrapper  as  Bostil,  any  day." 

"It  all  scares  me,"  replied  Slone.  He  did  feel  panicky, 

224 


WILDFIRE 

and  that  was  from  thoughts  of  what  shame  might  befall 
Lucy.  The  cold  sweat  oozed  out  of  every  pore.  What 
might  not  Bostil  do?  "Holley,  I  love  the  girl.  So  I — 
I  didn't  insult  her.  Bostil  will  never  understand.  An' 
what's  he  goin'  to  do  when  he  finds  out?" 

"Wai,  let's  hope  you  won't  git  any  wuss'n  you  give 
Joel." 

"Let  Bostil  beat  me!"  ejaculated  Slone.  "I  think  I'm 
willin' — now — the  way  I  feel.  But  I've  a  temper,  and 
Bostil  rubs  me  the  wrong  way." 

"Wai,  leave  your  gun  home,  an'  fight  Bostil.  You're 
pretty  husky.  Sure  he'll  lick  you,  but  mebbe  you  could 
give  the  old  cuss  a  black  eye."  Holley  laughed  as  if  the 
idea  gave  him  infinite  pleasure. 

"Fight  Bostil?  .  .  .  Lucy  would  hate  me!"  cried  Slone. 

"Nix!  You  don't  know  thet  kid.  If  the  old  man  goes 
after  you  Lucy  '11  care  more  fer  you.  She's  jest  like  him 
in  some  ways."  Holley  pulled  out  a  stubby  black  pipe 
and,  filling  and  lighting  it,  he  appeared  to  grow  more 
thoughtful.  "It  wasn't  only  Lucy  thet  sent  me  up  here 
to  see  you.  Bostil  had  been  pesterin'  me  fer  days.  But 
I  kept  fightin'  shy  of  it  till  Lucy  got  hold  of  me." 

"  Bostil  sent  you  ?    Why  ?" 

"Reckon  you  can  guess.  He  can't  sleep,  thinkin'  about 
your  red  hoss.  None  of  us  ever  seen  Bostil  have  sich  a 
bad  case.  He  raised  Sage  King.  But  he's  always  been 
crazy  fer  a  great  wild  stallion.  An'  here  you  come  along 
— an'  your  hoss  jumps  the  King — an'  there's  trouble 
generally." 

"Holley,  do  you  think  Wildfire  can  beat  Sage  King?" 
asked  Slone,  eagerly. 

"Reckon  I  do.  Lucy  says  so,  an'  I'll  back  her  any 
day.  But,  son,  I  ain't  paradin'  what  I  think.  I'd  git 
in  bad  myself.  Farlane  an'  the  other  boys,  they're 
with  Bostil.  Van  he's  to  blame  fer  thet.  He's  takin'  a 
dislike  to  you,  right  off.  An'  what  he  tells  Bostil  an'  the 
boys  about  thet  race  don't  agree  with  what  Lucy  tells 

225 


WILDFIRE 

me.  Lucy  says  Wildfire  ran  fiery  an'  cranky  at  the 
start.  He  wanted  to  run  round  an'  kill  the  King  instead 
of  racin'.  So  he  was  three  lengths  behind  when  Macom- 
ber  dropped  the  flag.  Lucy  says  the  King  got  into  his 
stride.  She  knows.  An'  there  Wildfire  comes  from  be 
hind  an'  climbs  all  over  the  King !  .  .  .  Van  tells  a  differ 
ent  story." 

"It  came  off  just  as  Lucy  told  you,"  declared  Slone. 
"I  saw  every  move." 

"Wai,  thet's  neither  here  nor  there.  What  you're  up 
ag'in  is  this.  Bostil  is  sore  since  you  called  him.  But  he 
holds  himself  in  because  he  hasn't  given  up  hope  of  gittin' 
Wildfire.  An',  Slone,  you're  sure  wise,  ain't  you,  thet 
if  Bostil  doesn't  buy  him  you  can't  stay  on  here?" 

"I'm  wise.  But  I  won't  sell  Wildfire,"  replied  Slone, 
doggedly. 

"Wai,  I'd  never  wasted  my  breath  tellin'  you  all  this  if 
I  hadn't  figgered  about  Lucy.  You've  got  her  to  think  of." 

Slone  turned  on  Holley  passionately.  "You  keep 
hintin'  there's  a  hope  for  me,  when  I  know  there's 
none!" 

"You're  only  a  boy,"  replied  Holley.  "Son,  where 
there's  life  there's  hope.  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  tell  you  agin 
thet  I  know  Lucy  Bostil." 

Slone  could  not  stand  nor  walk  nor  keep  still.  He 
was  shaking  from  head  to  foot. 

"Wildfire's  not  mine  to  sell.  He's  Lucy's!"  confessed 
Slone. 

"The  devil  you  say!"  ejaculated  Holley,  and  he  nearly 
dropped  his  pipe. 

"I  gave  Wildfire  to  her.  She  accepted  him.  It  was 
done.  Then — then  I  lost  my  head  an'  made  her  mad. 
.  .  .  An' — she  said  she'd  ride  him  in  the  race,  but  wouldn't 
keep  him.  But  he  is  hers." 

"Oho!  I  see.  Slone,  I  was  goin'  to  advise  you  to  sell 
Wildfire — all  on  account  of  Lucy.  You're  young  an' 
you'd  have  a  big  start  in  life  if  you  would.  But  Lucy's 

226 


WILDFIRE 

your  girl  an'  you  give  her  the  hoss.  .  .  .  Thet  settles 
thet!" 

"If  I  go  away  from  here  an'  leave  Wildfire  for  Lucy — 
do  you  think  she  could  keep  him?  Wouldn't  Bostil  take 
him  from  her?" 

"Wai,  son,  if  he  tried  thet  on  Lucy  she'd  jump  Wildfire 
an'  hit  your  trail  an'  hang  on  to  it  till  she  found  you." 

"What  '11  you  tell  Bostil?"  asked  Slone,  half  beside  him 
self. 

"I'm  consarned  if  I  know,"  replied  Holley.  "Mebbe 
I'll  think  of  some  idee.  I'll  go  back  now.  An'  say,  son, 
I  reckon  you'd  better  hang  close  to  home.  If  you  meet 
Bostil  down  in  the  village  you  two  'd  clash  sure.  I'll 
come  up  soon,  but  it  '11  be  after  dark." 

"Holley,  all  this  is— is  good  of  you,"  said  Slone.  "I— 
I'll—" 

"Shut  up,  son,"  interrupted  the  rider,  dryly.  "Thet's 
your  only  weakness,  so  far  as  I  can  see.  You  say  too 
much." 

Holley  started  down  then,  his  long,  clinking  spurs  dig 
ging  into  the  steep  path.  He  left  Slone  a  prey  to  deep 
thoughts  at  once  anxious  and  dreamy. 

Next  day  Slone  worked  hard  all  day,  looking  forward  to 
nightfall,  expecting  that  Holley  would  come  up.  He  tried 
to  resist  the  sweet  and  tantalizing  anticipation  of  a  mes 
sage  from  Lucy,  but  in  vain.  The  rider  had  immeasurably 
uplifted  Slone's  hope  that  Lucy,  at  least,  cared  for  him. 
Not  for  a  moment  all  day  could  Slone  drive  away  the 
hope.  At  twilight  he  was  too  eager  to  eat — too  obsessed 
to  see  the  magnificent  sunset.  But  Holley  did  not  come, 
and  Slone  went  to  bed  late,  half  sick  with  disappoint 
ment. 

The  next  day  was  worse.  Slone  found  work  irksome, 
yet  he  held  to  it.  On  the  third  day  he  rested  and  dreamed, 
and  grew  doubtful  again,  and  then  moody.  On  the  fourth 
day  Slone  found  he  needed  supplies  that  he  must  obtain 
from  the  store.  He  did  not  forget  Holley's  warning,  but 

16  227 


WILDFIRE 

he  disregarded  it,  thinking  there  would  scarcely  be  a 
chance  of  meeting  Bostil  at  midday. 

There  were  horses  standing,  bridles  down,  before  Brack- 
ton's  place,  and  riders  lounging  at  the  rail  and  step. 
Some  of  these  men  had  been  pleasant  to  Slone  on  earlier 
occasions.  This  day  they  seemed  not  to  see  him.  Slone 
was  tingling  all  over  when  he  went  into  the  store.  Some 
deviltry  was  afoot !  He  had  an  angry  thought  that  these 
riders  could  not  have  minds  of  their  own.  Just  inside 
the  door  Slone  encountered  Wetherby,  the  young  rancher 
from  Durango.  Slone  spoke,  but  Wetherby  only  replied 
with  an  insolent  stare.  Slone  did  not  glance  at  the  man 
to  whom  Wetherby  was  talking.  Only  a  few  people  were 
inside  the  store,  and  Brackton  was  waiting  upon  them. 
Slone  stood  back  a  little  in  the  shadow.  Brackton  had 
observed  his  entrance,  but  did  not  greet  him.  Then 
Slone  absolutely  knew  that  for  him  the  good  will  of 
BostiTs  Ford  was  a  thing  of  the  past. 

Presently  Brackton  was  at  leisure,  but  he  showed  no 
disposition  to  attend  to  Slone's  wants.  Then  Slone 
walked  up  to  the  counter  and  asked  for  supplies. 

"Have  you  got  the  money?"  asked  Brackton,  as  if  ad 
dressing  one  he  would  not  trust. 

"Yes,"  replied  Slone,  growing  red  under  an  insult  that 
he  knew  Wetherby  had  heard. 

Brackton  handed  out  the  supplies  and  received  the 
money,  without  a  word.  He  held  his  head  down.  It  was 
a  singular  action  for  a  man  used  to  dealing  fairly  with 
every  one.  Slone  felt  outraged.  He  hurried  out  of  the 
place,  with  shame  burning  him,  with  his  own  eyes  down 
cast,  and  in  his  hurry  he  bumped  square  into  a  burly 
form.  Slone  recoiled — looked  up.  Bostil !  The  old  rider 
was  eying  him  with  cool  speculation. 

"Wai,  are  you  drunk?"  he  queried,  without  any  par 
ticular  expression. 

Yet  the  query  was  to  Slone  like  a  blow.  It  brought  his 
head  up  with  a  jerk,  his  glance  steady  and  keen  on  Bostil's. 

228 


WILDFIRE 

"Bostil,  you  know  I  don't  drink,"  he  said. 

"  A-huh!  I  know  a  lot  about  you,  Slone.  ...  I  heard 
you  bought  Vorhees's  place,  up  on  the  bench." 

4<Yes." 

"Did  he  tell  you  it  was  mortgaged  to  me  for  more'n 
it's  worth?" 

"No,  he  didn't." 

"Did  he  make  over  any  papers  to  you?" 

"No." 

"Wai,  if  it  interests  you  I'll  show  you  papers  thet 
proves  the  property's  mine." 

Slone  suffered  a  pang.  The  little  home  had  grown 
dearer  and  dearer  to  him. 

"All  right,  Bostil.  If  it's  yours — it's  yours,"  he  said, 
calmly  enough. 

"I  reckon  I'd  drove  you  out  before  this  if  I  hadn't 
felt  we  could  make  a  deal." 

"We  can't  agree  on  any  deal,  Bostil,"  replied  Slone, 
steadily.  It  was  not  what  Bostil  said,  but  the  way  he 
said  it,  the  subtle  meaning  and  power  behind  it,  that 
gave  Slone  a  sense  of  menace  and  peril.  These  he  had 
been  used  to  for  years;  he  could  meet  them.  But  he  was 
handicapped  here  because  it  seemed  that,  though  he  could 
meet  Bostil  face  to  face,  he  could  not  fight  him.  For  he 
was  Lucy's  father.  Slone's  position,  the  impotence  of  it, 
rendered  him  less  able  to  control  his  temper. 

"Why  can't  we?"  demanded  Bostil.  " If  you  wasn't  so 
touchy  we  could.  An'  let  me  say,  young  feller,  thet  there's 
more  reason  now  thet  you  do  make  a  deal  with  me." 

"Deal?    What  about?" 

"About  your  red  hoss." 

"Wildfire!  ...  No  deals,  Bostil,"  returned  Slone,  and 
made  as  if  to  pass  him. 

The  big  hand  that  forced  Slone  back  was  far  from  gentle, 
and  again  he  felt  the  quick  rush  of  blood. 

"Mebbe  I  can  tell  you  somethin'  thet  '11  make  you  sell 
Wildfire,"  said  Bostil. 

229 


WILDFIRE 

"Not  if  you  talked  yourself  dumb!"  flashed  Slone. 
There  was  no  use  to  try  to  keep  cool  with  this  Bostil,  if 
he  talked  horses.  "I'll  race  Wildfire  against  the  King. 
But  no  more." 

"Race!  Wai,  we  don't  run  races  around  here  without 
stakes,"  replied  Bostil,  with  deep  scorn.  "An*  what  can 
you  bet?  Thet  little  dab  of  prize  money  is  gone,  an'  it 
wouldn't  be  enough  to  meet  me.  You're  a  strange  one 
in  these  parts.  I've  pride  an'  reputation  to  uphold. 
You  brag  of  racin'  with  me — an'  you  a  beggarly  rider ! .  .  . 
You  wouldn't  have  them  clothes  an'  boots  if  my  girl 
hadn't  fetched  them  to  you." 

The  riders  behind  Bostil  laughed.  Wetherby's  face 
was  there  in  the  door,  not  amused,  but  hard  with  scorn 
and  something  else.  Slone  felt  a  sickening,  terrible  gust 
of  passion.  It  fairly  shook  him.  And  as  the  wave  sub 
sided  the  quick  cooling  of  skin  and  body  pained  him  like 
a  burn  made  with  ice. 

"Yes,  Bostil,  I'm  what  you  say,"  responded  Slone, 
and  his  voice  seemed  to  fill  his  ears.  "But  you're  dead 
wrong  when  you  say  I've  nothin'  to  bet  on  a  race." 

"An'  what  '11  you  bet?" 

"My  life  an'  my  horse!" 

The  riders  suddenly  grew  silent  and  intense.  Bostil 
vibrated  to  that.  He  turned  white.  He  more  than  any 
rider  on  the  uplands  must  have  felt  the  nature  of  that 
offer. 

"Ag'in  what?"  he  demanded,  hoarsely. 

"Your  daughter  Lucy!" 

One  instant  the  surprise  held  Bostil  mute  and  motion 
less.  Then  he  seemed  to  expand.  His  huge  bulk  jerked 
into  motion  and  he  bellowed  like  a  mad  bull. 

Slone  saw  the  blow  coming,  made  no  move  to  avoid 
it.  The  big  fist  took  him  square  on  the  mouth  and  chin 
and  laid  him  flat  on  the  ground.  Sight  failed  Slone  for 
a  little,  and  likewise  ability  to  move.  But  he  did  not  lose 
consciousness.  His  head  seemed  to  have  been  burst 

230 


WILDFIRE 

into  rays  and  red  mist  that  blurred  his  eyes.  Then  these 
cleared  away,  leaving  intense  pain.  He  started  to  get 
up,  his  brain  in  a  whirl.  Where  was  his  gun?  He  had 
left  it  at  home.  But  for  that  he  would  have  killed  Bostil. 
He  had  already  killed  one  man.  The  thing  was  a  burn 
ing  flash — then  all  over!  He  could  do  it  again.  But 
Bostil  was  Lucy's  father! 

Slone  gathered  up  the  packages  of  supplies,  and  with 
out  looking  at  the  men  he  hurried  away.  He  seemed  pos 
sessed  of  a  fury  to  turn  and  run  back.  Some  force,  like 
an  invisible  hand,  withheld  him.  When  he  reached  the 
cabin  he  shut  himself  in,  and  lay  on  his  bunk,  forgetting 
that  the  place  did  not  belong  to  him,  alive  only  to  the 
mystery  of  his  trouble,  smarting  with  the  shame  of  the 
assault  upon  him.  It  was  dark  before  he  composed  him 
self  and  went  out,  and  then  he  had  not  the  desire  to  eat. 
He  made  no  move  to  open  the  supplies  of  food,  did  not 
even  make  a  light.  But  he  went  out  to  take  grass  and 
water  to  the  horses.  When  he  returned  to  the  cabin  a 
man  was  standing  at  the  porch.  Slone  recognized  Hoi- 
ley's  shape  and  then  his  voice. 

"Son,  you  raised  the  devil  to-day." 

"Holley,  don't  you  go  back  on  me!"  cried  Slone.  "I 
was  driven!" 

"Don't  talk  so  loud,"  whispered  the  rider  in  return. 
"I've  only  a  minnit.  .  .  .  Here — a  letter  from  Lucy.  .  .  . 
An',  son,  don't  git  the  idee  thet  I'll  go  back  on  you." 

Slone  took  the  letter  with  trembling  fingers.  All  the 
fury  and  gloom  instantly  fled.  Lucy  had  written  him! 
He  could  not  speak. 

"Son,  I'm  double-crossin'  the  boss,  right  this  minnit!" 
whispered  Holley,  hoarsely.  "An'  the  same  time  I'm 
playin'  Lucy's  game.  If  Bostil  finds  out  he'll  kill  me. 
I  mustn't  be  ketched  up  here.  But  I  won't  lose  track  of 
you — wherever  you  go." 

Holley  slipped  away  stealthily  in  the  dusk,  leaving 
Slone  with  a  throbbing  heart. 

231 


WILDFIRE 

"Wherever  you  go!"  he  echoed.  "Ah!  I  forgot!  I 
can't  stay  here." 

Lucy's  letter  made  his  fingers  tingle — made  them  so 
hasty  and  awkward  that  he  had  difficulty  in  kindling 
blaze  enough  to  see  to  read.  The  letter  was  short,  written 
in  lead-pencil  on  the  torn  leaf  of  a  ledger.  Slone  could 
not  read  rapidly — those  years  on  the  desert  had  seen  to 
that — and  his  haste  to  learn  what  Lucy  said  bewildered 
him.  At  first  all  the  words  blurred: 

Come  at  once  to  the  bench  in  the  cottonwoods.  I'll  meet 
you  there.  My  heart  is  breaking.  It's  a  lie — a  lie — what  they 
say.  I'll  swear  you  were  with  me  the  night  the  boat  was  cut 
adrift.  I  know  you  didn't  do  that.  I  know  who. . . .  Oh,  come! 
I  will  stick  to  you.  I  will  run  off  with  you.  I  love  you! 


CHAPTER  XV 

QLONE'S  heart  leaped  to  his  throat,  and  its  beating 
O  choked  his  utterances  of  rapture  and  amaze  and 
dread.  But  rapture  dominated  the  other  emotions.  He 
could  scarcely  control  the  impulse  to  run  to  meet  Lucy, 
without  a  single  cautious  thought. 

He  put  the  precious  letter  inside  his  blouse,  where  it 
seemed  to  warm  his  breast.  He  buckled  on  his  gun-belt, 
and,  extinguishing  the  light,  he  hurried  out. 

A  crescent  moon  had  just  tipped  the  bluff.  The  vil 
lage  lanes  and  cabins  and  trees  lay  silver  in  the  moon 
light.  A  lonesome  coyote  barked  in  the  distance.  All 
else  was  still.  The  air  was  cool,  sweet,  fragrant.  There 
appeared  to  be  a  glamour  of  light,  of  silence,  of  beauty 
over  the  desert. 

Slone  kept  under  the  dark  lee  of  the  bluff  and  worked 
around  so  that  he  could  be  above  the  village,  where  there 
was  little  danger  of  meeting  any  one.  Yet  presently  he 
had  to  go  out  of  the  shadow  into  the  moon-blanched 
lane.  Swift  and  silent  as  an  Indian  he  went  along,  keep 
ing  in  the  shade  of  what  trees  there  were,  until  he  came  to 
the  grove  of  cottonwoods.  The  grove  was  a  black  mystery 
lanced  by  silver  rays.  He  slipped  in  among  the  trees, 
halting  every  few  steps  to  listen.  The  action,  the  reali 
zation  had  helped  to  make  him  cool,  to  steel  him,  though 
never  before  in  his  life  had  he  been  so  exalted.  The  pur 
suit  and  capture  of  Wildfire,  at  one  time  the  desire  of  his 
heart,  were  as  nothing  to  this.  Love  had  called  him — 
and  life — and  he  knew  death  hung  in  the  balance.  If 
Bostil  found  him  seeking  Lucy  there  would  be  blood 

233 


WILDFIRE 

spilled.  Slone  quaked  at  the  thought,  for  the  cold  and 
ghastly  oppression  following  the  death  he  had  meted 
out  to  Sears  came  to  him  at  times.  But  such  thoughts 
were  fleeting;  only  one  thought  really  held  his  mind — and 
the  one  was  that  Lucy  loved  him,  had  sent  strange,  wild, 
passionate  words  to  him. 

He  found  the  narrow  path,  its  white  crossed  by  slowly 
moving  black  bars  of  shadow,  and  stealthily  he  followed 
this,  keen  of  eye  and  ear,  stopping  at  every  rustle.  He 
well  knew  the  bench  Lucy  had  mentioned.  It  was  in  a 
remote  corner  of  the  grove,  under  big  trees  near  the 
spring.  Once  Slone  thought  he  had  a  glimpse  of  white. 
Perhaps  it  was  only  moonlight.  He  slipped  on  and  on, 
and  when  beyond  the  branching  paths  that  led  toward 
the  house  he  breathed  freer.  The  grove  appeared  de 
serted.  At  last  he  crossed  the  runway  from  the  spring, 
smelled  the  cool,  wet  moss  and  watercress,  and  saw  the 
big  cottonwood,  looming  dark  above  the  other  trees.  A 
patch  of  moonlight  brightened  a  little  glade  just  at  the 
edge  of  dense  shade  cast  by  the  cottonwood.  Here  the 
bench  stood.  It  was  empty! 

Slone's  rapture  vanished.  He  was  suddenly  chilled. 
She  was  not  there!  She  might  have  been  intercepted. 
He  would  not  see  her.  The  disappointment,  the  sudden 
relaxation,  was  horrible.  Then  a  white,  slender  shape 
flashed  from  beside  the  black  tree-trunk  and  flew  toward 
him.  It4  was  noiseless,  like  a  specter,  and  swift  as  the 
wind.  Was  he  dreaming?  He  felt  so  strange.  Then — 
the  white  shape  reached  him  and  he  knew. 

Lucy  leaped  into  his  arms. 

"Lin!  Lin!  Oh,  I'm  so — so  glad  to  see  you!"  she 
whispered.  She  seemed  breathless,  keen,  new  to  him, 
not  in  the  least  afraid  nor  shy.  Slone  could  only  hold 
her.  He  could  not  have  spoken,  even  if  she  had  given 
him  a  chance.  "I  know  everything — what  they  accuse 
you  of — how  the  riders  treated  you — how  my  dad  struck 
you.  Oh!  .  .  .  He's  a  brute!  I  hate  him  for  that.  Why 

234 


WILDFIRE 

didn't  you  keep  out  of  his  way? .  .  .  Van  saw  it  all.  Oh,  I 
hate  him,  too!  He  said  you  lay  still — where  you  fell! 
.  .  .  Dear  Lin,  that  blow  may  have  hurt  you  dreadfully — 
shamed  you  because  you  couldn't  strike  back  at  my  dad 
—but  it  reached  me,  too.  It  hurt  me.  It  woke  my 
heart.  .  .  .  Where — where  did  he  hit  you?  Oh,  I've  seen 
him  hit  men!  His  terrible  fists!" 

"Lucy,  never  mind,"  whispered  Slone.  "I'd  stood  to 
be  shot  just  for  this." 

He  felt  her  hands  softly  on  his  face,  feeling  around  ten 
derly  till  they  found  the  swollen  bruise  on  mouth  and  chin. 

"Ah!  ...  He  struck  you.  And  I— I'll  kiss  you,"  she 
whispered.  "If  kisses  will  make  it  well — it'll  be  well!" 

She  seemed  strange,  wild,  passionate  in  her  tenderness. 
She  lifted  her  face  and  kissed  him  softly  again  and  again 
and  again,  till  the  touch  that  had  been  exquisitely  painful 
to  his  bruised  lips  became  rapture.  Then  she  leaned  back 
in  his  arms,  her  hands  on  his  shoulders,  white-faced,  dark- 
eyed,  and  laughed  up  in  his  face,  lovingly,  daringly,  as 
if  she  defied  the  world  to  change  what  she  had  done. 

"Lucy!  Lucy!  .  .  .  He  can  beat  me — again!"  said 
Slone,  low  and  hoarsely. 

"If  you  love  me  you'll  keep  out  of  his  way,"  replied 
the  girl. 

"If  I  love  you?  ...  My  God!  .  .  .  I've  felt  my  heart 
die  a  thousand  times  since  that  mornin' — when — when 
you—" 

"Lin,  I  didn't  know,"  she  interrupted,  with  sweet, 
grave  earnestness.  "I  know  now!" 

And  Slone  could  not  but  know,  too,  looking  at  her; 
and  the  sweetness,  the  eloquence,  the  noble  abandon  of 
her  avowal  sounded  to  the  depths  of  him.  His  dread,  his 
resignation,  his  shame,  all  sped  forever  in  the  deep,  full 
breath  of  relief  with  which  he  cast  off  that  burden.  He 
tasted  the  nectar  of  happiness,  the  first  time  in  his  life. 
He  lifted  his  head — never,  he  knew,  to  lower  it  again. 
He  would  be  true  to  what  she  had  made  him. 

235 


WILDFIRE 

"Come  in  the  shade,'*  he  whispered,  and  with  his  arm 
round  her  he  led  her  to  the  great  tree-trunk.  "Is  it  safe 
for  you  here?  An'  how  long  can  you  stay?" 

"I  had  it  out  with  Dad — left  him  licked  once  in  his 
life,"  she  replied.  "Then  I  went  to  my  room,  fastened 
the  door,  and  slipped  out  of  my  window.  I  can  stay  out 
as  long  as  I  want.  No  one  will  know." 

Slone's  heart  throbbed.  She  was  his.  The  clasp  of 
her  hands  on  his,  the  gleam  of  her  eyes,  the  white,  daring 
flash  of  her  face  in  the  shadow  of  the  moon — these  told 
him  she  was  his.  How  it  had  come  about  was  beyond 
him,  but  he  realized  the  truth.  What  a  girl!  This  was 
the  same  nerve  which  she  showed  when  she  had  run  Wild 
fire  out  in  front  of  the  fleetest  horses  in  the  uplands. 

"Tell  me,  then,"  he  began,  quietly,  with  keen  gaze 
roving  under  the  trees  and  eyes  strained  tight,  "tell  me 
what's  come  off." 

"Don't  you  know?"  she  queried,  in  amaze. 

"Only  that  for  some  reason  I'm  done  in  Bostil's  Ford. 
It  can't  be  because  I  punched  Joel  Creech.  I  felt  it  be 
fore  I  met  Bostil  at  the  store.  He  taunted  me.  We  had 
bitter  words.  He  told  before  all  of  them  how  the  outfit 
I  wore  you  gave  me.  An*  then  I  dared  him  to  race  the 
King.  My  horse  an'  my  life  against  you!" 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  whispered,  softly.  "It's  all  over 
town.  .  .  .  Oh,  Lin !  it  was  a  grand  bet !  And  Bostil  four- 
flushed,  as  the  riders  say.  For  days  a  race  between  Wild 
fire  and  the  King  had  been  in  the  air.  There'll  never  be 
peace  in  Bostil's  Ford  again  till  that  race  is  run." 

"But,  Lucy,  could  Bostil's  wantin'  Wildfire  an'  hatin' 
me  because  I  won't  sell — could  that  ruin  me  here  at  the 
Ford?" 

"It  could.  But,  Lin,  there's  more.  Oh,  I  hate  to 
tell  you!"  she  whispered,  passionately.  "I  thought  you'd 
know.  .  .  .  Joel  Creech  swore  you  cut  the  ropes  on  the 
ferry-boat  and  sent  it  adrift." 

"The  loon!"  ejaculated  Slone,  and  he  laughed  low  in 

236 


WILDFIRE 

both  anger  and  ridicule.  "Lucy,  that's  only  a  fool's 
talk." 

"He's  crazy.  Oh,  if  I  ever  get  him  in  front  of  me  again 
when  I'm  on  Sarch— I'll— I'll.  .  .  ."  She  ended  with  a 
little  gasp  and  leaned  a  moment  against  Slone.  He  felt 
her  heart  beat — felt  the  strong  clasp  of  her  hands.  She 
was  indeed  Bostil's  flesh  and  blood,  and  there  was  that 
in  her  dangerous  to  arouse. 

"Lin,  the  folks  here  are  queer,"  she  resumed,  more 
calmly.  "For  long  years  Dad  has  ruled  them.  They 
see  with  his  eyes  and  talk  with  his  voice.  Joel  Creech 
swore  you  cut  those  cables.  Swore  he  trailed  you. 
Brackton  believed  him.  Van  believed  him.  They  told 
my  father.  And  he — my  dad — God  forgive  him!  he 
jumped  at  that.  The  village  as  one  person  now  believes 
you  sent  the  boat  adrift  so  Creech's  horses  could  not 
cross  and  you  could  win  the  race." 

"Lucy,  if  it  wasn't  so — so  funny  I'd  be  mad  as — as — " 
burst  out  Slone. 

"  It  isn't  funny.  It's  terrible.  ...  I  know  who  cut  those 
cables.  .  .  .  Holley  knows.  .  .  .  Dad  knows — an',  oh,  Lin — 
I — I  hate — I  hate  my  own  father!" 

"My  God!"  gasped  Slone,  as  the  full  signification  burst 
upon  him.  Then  his  next  thought  was  for  Lucy.  "  Listen, 
dear — you  mustn't  say  that,"  he  entreated.  "He's  your 
father.  He's  a  good  man  every  way  except  when  he's 
after  horses.  Then  he's  half  horse.  I  understand  him. 
I  feel  sorry  for  him.  .  .  .  An'  if  he's  throwed  the  blame  on 
me,  all  right.  I'll  stand  it.  What  do  I  care?  I  was 
queered,  anyhow,  because  I  wouldn't  part  with  my  horse. 
It  can't  matter  so  much  if  people  think  I  did  that  just 
to  help  win  a  race.  But  if  they  knew  your — your  father 
did  it,  an'  if  Creech's  horses  starve,  why  it  'd  be  a  dis 
grace  for  him — an'  you." 

"Lin  Slone — you'll  accept  the  blame!"  she  whispered, 
with  wide,  dark  eyes  on  him,  hands  at  his  shoulders. 

"  Sure  I  will,"  replied  Slone.  "I  can't  be  any  worse  off." 

237 


WILDFIRE 

"  You're  better  than  all  of  them — my  rider!"  she  cried, 
full- voiced  and  tremulous.  "Lin,  you  make  me  love  you 
so — it — it  hurts!"  And  she  seemed  about  to  fling  her 
self  into  his  arms  again.  There  was  a  strangeness  about 
her — a  glory.  "But  you'll  not  take  the  shame  of  that 
act.  For  I  won't  let  you.  I'll  tell  my  father  I  was  with 
you  when  the  boat  was  cut  loose.  He'll  believe  me." 

"Yes,  an'  he'll  kill  me!"  groaned  Slone.  "Good  Lord! 
Lucy,  don't  do  that!" 

"I  will !  An'  he'll  not  kill  you.  Lin,  Dad  took  a  great 
fancy  to  you.  I  know  that.  He  thinks  he  hates  you. 
But  in  his  heart  he  doesn't.  If  he  got  hold  of  Wildfire — 
why,  he'd  never  be  able  to  do  enough  for  you.  He  never 
could  make  it  up.  What  do  you  think?  I  told  him  you 
hugged  and  kissed  me  shamefully  that  day." 

"Oh,    Lucy!  you  didn't?"  implored  Slone. 

' '  I  sure  did.  And  what  do  you  think  ?  He  said  he  once 
did  the  same  to  my  mother!  .  . .  No,  Lin,  Dad  'd  never 
kill  you  for  anything  except  a  fury  about  horses.  All  the 
fights  he  ever  had  were  over  horse  deals.  The  two  men 
— he — he — "  Lucy  faltered  and  her  shudder  was  il 
luminating  to  Slone.  "Both  of  tihem — fights  over  horse 
trades!" 

"Lucy,  if  I'm  ever  unlucky  enough  to  meet  Bostil 
again  I'll  be  deaf  an'  dumb.  An*  now  you  promise  me 
you  won't  tell  him  you  were  with  me  that  night." 

"Lin,  if  the  occasion  comes,  I  will — I  couldn't  help 
it,"  replied  Lucy. 

"Then  fight  shy  of  the  occasion,"  he  rejoined,  earnestly. 
"For  that  would  be  the  end  of  Lin  Slone!" 

"Then — what  on  earth  can — we  do?"  Lucy  said,  with 
sudden  break  of  spirit. 

"  I  think  we  must  wait.  You  wrote  in  your  letter  you'd 
stick  to  me — you'd — "  He  could  not  get  the  words  out, 
the  thought  so  overcame  him. 

"If  it  comes  to  a  finish,  I'll  go  with  you,"  Lucy  re 
turned,  with  passion  rising  again. 

238 


WILDFIRE 

"Oh!  to  ride  off  with  you,  Lucy — to  have  you  all  to 
myself — I  daren't  think  of  it.  But  that's  only  selfish." 

"Maybe  it's  not  so  selfish  as  you  believe.  If  you  left 
the  Ford — now — it  'd  break  my  heart.  I'd  never  get 
over  it." 

" Lucy!    You  love  me— that  well?" 

Then  their  lips  met  again  and  their  hands  locked,  and 
they  stood  silent,  straining  toward  each  other.  He  held 
the  slight  form,  so  pliant,  so  responsive,  so  alive,  close  to 
him,  and  her  face  lay  hidden  on  his  breast;  and  he  looked 
out  over  her  head  into  the  quivering  moonlit  shadows. 
The  night  was  as  still  as  one  away  on  the  desert  far  from 
the  abode  of  men.  It  was  more  beautiful  than  any  dream 
of  a  night  in  which  he  had  wandered  far  into  strange 
lands  where  wild  horses  were  and  forests  lay  black  under 
moon-silvered  peaks. 

"We'll  run — then — if  it  comes  to  a  finish,"  said  Slone, 
huskily.  "But  I'll  wait.  I'll  stick  it  out  here.  I'll  take 
what  comes.  So — maybe  I'll  not  disgrace  you  more." 

"I  told  Van  I — I  gloried  in  being  hugged  by  you  that 
day,"  she  replied,  and  her  little  defiant  laugh  told  what 
she  thought  of  the  alleged  disgrace. 

"You  torment  him,"  remonstrated  Slone.  "You  set 
him  against  us.  It  would  be  better  to  keep  still." 

"But  my  blood  is  up!"  she  said,  and  she  pounded  his 
shoulder  with  her  fist.  'Til  fight— I'll  fight!  ...  I 
couldn't  avoid  Van.  It  was  Holley  who  told  me  Van  was 
threatening  you.  And  when  I  met  Van  he  told  me  how 
everybody  said  you  insulted  me — had  been  worse  than 
a  drunken  rider — and  that  he'd  beat  you  half  to  death. 
So  I  told  Van  Joel  Creech  might  have  seen  us — I  didn't 
doubt  that — but  he  didn't  see  that  I  liked  being  hugged." 

"What  did  Van  say  then?"  asked  Slone,  all  aglow  with 
his  wonderful  joy. 

"He  wilted.  He  slunk  away.  .  .  .  And  so  I'll  tell  them 
all." 

"But,  Lucy,  you've  always  been  so — so  truthful." 

239 


WILDFIRE 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Well,  to  say  you  liked  being  hugged  that  day  was— 
was  a  story,  wasn't  it?" 

"That  was  what  made  me  so  furious,"  she  admitted, 
shyly.  "  I  was  surprised  when  you  grabbed  me  off  Wild 
fire.  And  my  heart  beat — beat — beat  so  when  you  hugged 
me.  And  when  you  kissed  me  I — I  was  petrified.  I 
knew  I  liked  it  then — and  I  was  furious  with  myself." 

Slone  drew  a  long,  deep  breath  of  utter  enchantment. 
"You'll  take  back  Wildfire?" 

"Oh,  Lin — don't — ask — me,"  she  implored. 

"Take  him  back — an'  me  with  him." 

"Then  I  will.     But  no  one  must  know  that  yet." 

They  drew  apart  then. 

"An'  now  you  must  go,"  said  Slone,  reluctantly. 
"Listen.  I  forgot  to  warn  you  about  Joel  Creech. 
Don't  ever  let  him  near  you.  He's  crazy  an'  he  means 
evil." 

"Oh,  I  know,  Lin!  I'll  watch.  But  I'm  not  afraid 
of  him." 

"He's  strong,  Lucy.  I  saw  him  lift  bags  that  were 
hefty  for  me.  .  .  .  Lucy,  do  you  ride  these  days?" 

"Every  day.     If  I  couldn't  ride  I  couldn't  live." 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  Slone,  nervously.  "There's  Creech 
an'  Cordts — both  have  threatened  you." 

"I'm  afraid  of  Cordts,"  replied  Lucy,  with  a  shiver. 
"You  should  have  seen  him  look  at  me  race-day.  It 
made  me  hot  with  anger,  yet  weak,  too,  somehow.  But 
Dad  says  I'm  never  in  any  danger  if  I  watch  out.  And 
I  do.  Who  could  catch  me  on  Sarch?" 

"Any  horse  can  be  tripped  in  the  sage.  You  told  me 
how  Joel  tried  to  rope  Sage  King.  Did  you  ever  tell 
your  dad  that?" 

"I  forgot.  But  then  I'm  glad  I  didn't.  Dad  would 
shoot  for  that,  quicker  than  if  Joel  tried  to  rope  him.  .  .  . 
Don't  worry,  Lin,  I  always  pack  a  gun." 

"But  can  you  use  it?" 

240 


WILDFIRE 

Lucy  laughed.     "Do  you  think  I  can  only  ride?" 

Slone  remembered  that  Holley  had  said  he  had  taught 
Lucy  how  to  shoot  as  well  as  ride.  "You'll  be  watchful — 
careful,"  he  said,  earnestly. 

"Oh,  Lin,  you  need  to  be  that  more  than  I.  ...  What 
will  you  do?" 

"I'll  stay  up  at  the  little  cabin  I  thought  I  owned  till 
to-day." 

"Didn't  you  buy  it?"  asked  Lucy,  quickly. 

"I  thought  I  did.  But  .  .  .  nevermind.  Maybe  I  won't 
get  put  out  just  yet.  An'  when  will  I  see  you  again?" 

"Here,  every  night.  Wait  till  I  come,"  she  replied. 
"Good  night,  Lin." 

"I'll — wait!"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  catch  in  his  voice. 
"Oh,  my  luck!  .  .  .  I'll  wait,  Lucy,  every  day — hopin'  an' 
prayin'  that  this  trouble  will  lighten.  An'  I'll  wait  at 
night — for  you!" 

He  kissed  her  good-by  and  watched  the  slight  form 
glide  away,  flit  to  and  fro,  white  in  the  dark  patches, 
grow  indistinct  and  vanish.  He  was  left  alone  in  the 
silent  grove. 

Slone  stole  back  to  the  cabin  and  lay  sleepless  and 
tranced,  watching  the  stars,  till  late  that  night. 

All  the  next  day  he  did  scarcely  anything  but  watch 
and  look  after  his  horses  and  watch  and  drag  the  hours 
out  and  dream  despite  his  dread.  But  no  one  visited 
him.  The  cabin  was  left  to  him  that  day. 

It  had  been  a  hot  day,  with  great  thunderhead,  black 
and  creamy  white  clouds  rolling  down  from  the  canon 
country.  No  rain  had  fallen  at  the  Ford,  though  storms 
near  by  had  cooled  the  air.  At  sunset  Slone  saw  a  rain 
bow  bending  down,  ruddy  and  gold,  connecting  the  pur 
ple  of  cloud  with  the  purple  of  horizon. 

Out  beyond  the  valley  the  clouds  were  broken,  showing 
rifts  of  blue,  and  they  rolled  low,  burying  the  heads  of 
the  monuments,  creating  a  wild  and  strange  spectacle. 

241 


WILDFIRE 

Twilight  followed,  and  appeared  to  rise  to  meet  the  dark 
ening  clouds.  And  at  last  the  gold  on  the  shafts  faded; 
the  monuments  faded;  .and  the  valley  grew  dark. 

Slone  took  advantage  of  the  hour  before  moonrise  to 
steal  down  into  the  grove,  there  to  wait  for  Lucy.  She 
came  so  quickly  he  scarcely  felt  that  he  waited  at  all; 
and  then  the  time  spent  with  her,  sweet,  fleeting,  precious, 
left  him  stronger  to  wait  for  her  again,  to  hold  himself 
in,  to  cease  his  brooding,  to  learn  faith  in  something  deeper 
than  he  could  fathom. 

The  next  day  he  tried  to  work,  but  found  idle  waiting 
made  the  time  fly  swifter  because  in  it  he  could  dream. 
In  the  dark  of  the  rustling  cottonwoods  he  met  Lucy, 
as  eager  to  see  him  as  he  was  to  see  her,  tender,  loving, 
remorseful — a  hundred  sweet  and  bewildering  things  all 
so  new,  so  unbelievable  to  Slone. 

That  night  he  learned  that  Bostil  had  started  for  Du- 
rango  with  some  of  his  riders.  This  trip  surprised  Slone 
and  relieved  him  likewise,  for  Durango  was  over  two  hun 
dred  miles  distant,  and  a  journey  there  even  for  the  hard 
riders  was  a  matter  of  days. 

"He  left  no  orders  for  me,"  Lucy  said,  "except  to  be 
have  myself.  ...  Is  this  behaving?"  she  whispered,  and 
nestled  close  to  Slone,  audacious,  tormenting  as  she  had 
been  before  this  dark  cloud  of  trouble.  "But  he  left 
orders  for  Holley  to  ride  with  me  and  look  after  me. 
Isn't  that  funny?  Poor  old  Holley !  He  hates  to  double- 
cross  Dad,  he  says." 

"I'm  glad  Holley's  to  look  after  you,"  replied  Slone. 
"Yesterday  I  saw  you  tearin'  down  into  the  sage  on 
Sarch.  I  wondered  what  you'd  do,  Lucy,  if  Cordts  or  that 
loon  Creech  should  get  hold  of  you?" 

"I'd  fight!" 

"  But,  child,  that's  nonsense.  You  couldn't  fight  either 
of  them." 

"Couldn't  I?  Well,  I  just  could.  I'd— I'd  shoot 
Cordts.  And  I'd  whip  Joel  Creech  with  my  quirt.  And 

242 


WILDFIRE 

if  he  kept  after  me  I'd  let  Sarch  run  him  down.  Sarch 
hates  him." 

"You're  a  brave  sweetheart,"  mused  Slone.  "Sup 
pose  you  were  caught  an'  couldn't  get  away.  Would  you 
leave  a  trail  somehow?" 

"I  sure  would." 

"Lucy,  I'm  a  wild-horse  hunter,"  he  went  on,  thought 
fully,  as  if  speaking  to  himself.  "I  never  failed  on  a 
trail.  I  could  track  you  over  bare  rock." 

"Lin,  I'll  leave  a  trail,  so  never  fear,"  she  replied. 
"But  don't  borrow  trouble.  You're  always  afraid  for 
me.  Look  at  the  bright  side.  Dad  seems  to  have  for 
gotten  you.  Maybe  it  all  isn't  so  bad  as  we  thought. 
Oh,  I  hope  so! ...  How  is  my  horse,  Wildfire?  I  want  to 
ride  him  again.  I  can  hardly  keep  from  going  after 
him." 

And  so  they  whispered  while  the  moments  swiftly 
passed. 

It  was  early  during  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day  that 
Slone,  hearing  the  clip-clop  of  unshod  ponies,  went  out 
side  to  look.  One  part  of  the  lane  he  could  see  plainly, 
and  into  it  stalked  Joel  Creech,  leading  the  leanest  and 
gauntest  ponies  Slone  had  ever  seen.  A  man  as  lean  and 
gaunt  as  the  ponies  stalked  behind. 

The  sight  shocked  Slone.  Joel  Creech  and  his  father! 
Slone  had  no  proof,  because  he  had  never  seen  the  elder 
Creech,  yet  strangely  he  felt  convinced  of  it.  And  grim 
ideas  began  to  flash  into  his  mind.  Creech  would  hear  who 
was  accused  of  cutting  the  boat  adrift.  What  would  he 
say?  If  he  believed,  as  all  the  villagers  believed,  then 
Bostil's  Ford  would  become  an  unhealthy  place  for  Lin 
Slone.  Where  were  the  great  race-horses — Blue  Roan  and 
Peg — and  the  other  thoroughbreds  ?  A  pang  shot  through 
Slone. 

"Oh,  not  lost— not  starved!"  he  muttered.  "That 
would  be  hell!" 

'7  243 


WILDFIRE 

Yet  he  believed  just  this  had  happened.  How  strange 
he  had  never  considered  such  an  event  as  the  return  of 
Creech. 

"I'd  better  look  him  up  before  he  looks  me,"  said 
Slone. 

It  took  but  an  instant  to  strap  on  his  belt  and  gun. 
Then  Slone  strode  down  his  path,  out  into  the  lane  tow 
ard  Brackton's.  Whatever  before  boded  ill  to  Slone 
had  been  nothing  to  what  menaced  him  now.  He  would 
have  a  man  to  face — a  man  whom  repute  called  just, 
but  stern. 

Before  Slone  reached  the  vicinity  of  the  store  he  saw 
riders  come  out  to  meet  the  Creech  party.  It  so  hap 
pened  there  were  more  riders  than  usually  frequented 
Brackton's  at  that  hour.  The  old  storekeeper  came  stum 
bling  out  and  raised  his  hands.  The  riders  could  be  heard, 
loud-voiced  and  excited.  Slone  drew  nearer,  and  the 
nearer  he  got  the  swifter  he  strode.  Instinct  told  him 
that  he  was  making  the  right  move.  He  would  face  this 
man  whom  he  was  accused  of  ruining.  The  poor  mus 
tangs  hung  their  heads  dejectedly. 

"Bags  of  bones,"  some  rider  loudly  said. 

And  then  Slone  drew  close  to  the  excited  group.  Brack- 
ton  held  the  center;  he  was  gesticulating;  his  thin  voice 
rose  piercingly. 

1 '  Creech !  Whar's  Peg  an'  the  Roan  ?  Gawd  Almighty, 
man !  You  ain't  meanin'  them  cayuses  thar  are  all  you've 
got  left  of  thet  grand  bunch  of  hosses?" 

There  was  scarcely  a  sound.  All  the  riders  were  still. 
Slone  fastened  his  eyes  on  Creech.  He  saw  a  gaunt,  hag 
gard  face  almost  black  with  dust — worn  and  sad — with 
big  eyes  of  terrible  gloom.  He  saw  an  unkempt,  ragged 
form  that  had  been  wet  and  muddy,  and  was  now  dust- 
caked. 

Creech  stood  silent  in  a  dignity  of  despair  that  wrung 
Slone's  heart.  His  silence  was  an  answer.  It  was  Joel 
Creech  who  broke  the  suspense. 

244 


WILDFIRE 

"Didn't  I  tell  you-all  what'd  happen?"  he  shrilled, 
"Parched  an'  starved!" 

"Aw  no!"  chorused  the  riders. 

Brackton  shook  all  over.  Tears  dimmed  his  eyes — 
tears  that  he  had  no  shame  for.  "  So  help  me  Gawd — I'm 
sorry!"  was  his  broken  exclamation. 

Slone  had  forgotten  himself  and  possible  revelation  con 
cerning  him.  But  when  Holley  appeared  close  to  him, 
with  a  significant  warning  look,  Slone  grew  keen  once 
more  on  his  own  account.  He  felt  a  hot  flame  inside 
him — a  deep  and  burning  anger  at  the  man  who  might 
have  saved  Creech's  horses.  And  he,  like  Brackton,  felt 
sorrow  for  Creech,  and  a  rider's  sense  of  loss,  of  pain. 
These  horses — these  dumb  brutes — faithful  and  some 
times  devoted,  had  to  suffer  an  agonizing  death  because 
of  the  selfishness  of  men. 

"I  reckon  we'd  all  like  to  hear  what  come  off,  Creech, 
if  you  don't  feel  too  bad  to  tell  us,"  said  Brackton. 

"Gimme  a  drink,"  replied  Creech. 

"Wai,  d— n  my  old  head!"  exclaimed  Brackton.  "I'm 
gittin'  old.  Come  on  in.  All  of  you !  We're  glad  to  see 
Creech  home." 

The  riders  filed  in  after  Brackton  and  the  Creeches. 
Holley  stayed  close  beside  Slone,  both  of  them  in  the 
background. 

"I  heerd  the  flood  comin'  thet  night;"  said  Creech 
to  his  silent  and  tense-faced  listeners.  "I  heerd  it  miles 
up  the  canon.  'Feared  a  bigger  roar  than  any  flood 
before.  As  it  happened,  I  was  alone,  an'  it  took  time 
to  git  the  hosses  up.  If  there'd  been  an  Indian  with 
me  —  or  even  Joel  —  mebbe — "  His  voice  quavered 
slightly,  broke,  and  then  he  resumed.  "Even  when  I 
got  the  hosses  over  to  the  landin'  it  wasn't  too  late — 
if  only  some  one  had  heerd  me  an'  come  down.  I 
yelled  an'  shot.  Nobody  heerd.  The  river  was  risin' 
fast.  An'  thet  roar  had  begun  to  make  my  hair  raise. 
It  seemed  like  years  the  time  I  waited  there.  .  .  .  Then 

245 


WILDFIRE 

the  flood  came  down — black  an*  windy  an'  awful.  I  had 
hell  gittin'  the  hosses  back. 

"Next  mornin'  two  Piutes  come  down.  They  had  lost 
mustangs  up  on  the  rocks.  All  the  feed  on  my  place  was 
gone.  There  wasn't  nothin'  to  do  but  try  to  git  out. 
The  Piutes  said  there  wasn't  no  chance  north — no  water 
— no  grass — an'  so  I  decided  to  go  south,  if  we  could 
climb  over  thet  last  slide.  Peg  broke  her  leg  there,  an' — 
I — I  had  to  shoot  her.  But  we  climbed  out  with  the  rest 
of  the  bunch.  I  left  it  then  to  the  Piutes.  We  traveled 
five  days  west  to  head  the  canons.  No  grass  an'  only  a 
little  water,  salt  at  thet.  Blue  Roan  was  game  if  ever  I 
seen  a  game  hoss.  Then  the  Piutes  took  to  workin'  in 
•an'  out  an'  around,  not  to  git  out,  but  to  find  a  little 
grazin'.  I  never  knowed  the  earth  was  so  barren.  One 
by  one  them  hosses  went  down.  .  .  .  An'  at  last,  I  couldn't 
— I  couldn't  see  Blue  Roan  starvin' — dyin'  right  before 
my  eyes — an'  I  shot  him,  too.  .  .  .  An'  what  hurts  me  most 
now  is  thet  I  didn't  have  the  nerve  to  kill  him  fust  off." 

There  was  a  long  pause  in  Creech's  narrative. 

"  Them  Piutes  will  git  paid  if  ever  I  can  pay  them.     I'd 

parched  myself  but  for  them.  .  .  .  We  circled  an'  crossed 

them  red  cliffs  an'  then  the  strip  of  red  sand,  an'  worked 

down  into  the  canon.     Under  the  wall  was  a  long  stretch 

of  beach — sandy — an'   at  vthe  head  of  this  we  found 

Bostil's  boat." 

"Wai, !"  burst  out  the  profane  Brackton.  "Bos- 
til's  boat!  .  .  .  Say,  'ain't  Joel  told  you  yet  about  thet 
boat?" 

"No,  Joel  'ain't  said  a  word  about  the  boat,"  replied 
Creech.  "What  about  it?" 

"It  was  cut  loose  jest  before  the  flood." 

Manifestly  Brackton  expected  tjiis  to  be  staggering  to 
Creech.  But  he  did  not  even  show  surprise. 

"There's  a  rider  here  named  Slone — a  wild-hoss 
wrangler,"  went  on  Brackton,  "an'  Joel  swears  this 
Slone  cut  the  boat  loose  so's  he'd  have  a  better  chance 

246 


WILDFIRE 

to  win   the  race.      Joel  swears   he  tracked  this  feller 
Slone." 

For  Slone  the  moment  was  fraught  with  many  emo 
tions,  but  not  one  of  them  was  fear.  He  did  not  need  the 
sudden  force  of  Holley's  strong  hand,  pushing  him  for 
ward.  Slone  broke  into  the  group  and  faced  Creech. 

"It's  not  true.  I  never  cut  that  boat  loose,"  he  de 
clared,  ringingly. 

' 'Who  're  you?"  queried  Creech. 

"My  name's  Slone.  I  rode  in  here  with  a  wild 
horse,  an'  he  won  a  race.  Then  I  was  blamed  for 
this  trick." 

Creech's  steady,  gloomy  eyes  seemed  to  pierce  Slone 
through.  They  were  terrible  eyes  to  look  into,  yet  they 
held  no  menace  for  him.  "An'  Joel  accused  you?" 

"So  they  say.  I  fought  with  him — struck  him  for  an 
insult  to  a  girl." 

"Come  round  hyar,  Joel,"  called  Creech,  sternly.  His 
big,  scaly,  black  hand  closed  on  the  boy's  shoulder. 
Joel  cringed  under  it.  "Son,  you've  lied.  What  for?" 

Joel  showed  abject  fear  of  his  father.  "He's  gone  on 
Lucy — an'  I  seen  him  with  her,"  muttered  the  boy. 

"An'  you  lied  to  hurt  Slone?" 

Joel  would  not  reply  to  this  in  speech,  though  that  was 
scarcely  needed  to  show  he  had  lied.  He  seemed  to  have 
no  sense  of  guilt.  Creech  eyed  him  pityingly  and  then 
pushed  him  back. 

"Men,  my  son  has  done  this  rider  dirt,"  said  Creech. 
"You-all  see  thet.  Slone  never  cut  the  boat  loose.  .  .  . 
An'  say,  you-all  seem  to  think  cuttin'  thet  boat  loose  was 
the  crime.  .  .  .  No!  Thet  wasn't  the  crime.  The  crime 
was  keepin'  the  boat  out  of  the  water  fer  days  when  my 
bosses  could  have  been  crossed." 

Slone  stepped  back,  forgotten,  it  seemed  to  him.  Both 
joy  and  sorrow  swayed  him.  He  had  been  exonerated. 
But  this  hard  and  gloomy  Creech — he  knew  things.  And 
Slone  thought  of  Lucy. 

247 


WILDFIRE 

"Who  did  cut  thet  thar  boat  loose?"  demanded  Brack- 
ton,  incredulously. 

Creech  gave  him  a  strange  glance.  "As  I  was  sayin', 
we  come  on  the  boat  fast  at  the  head  of  the  long  stretch. 
I  seen  the  cables  had  been  cut.  An'  I  seen  more'n  thet. 
.  .  .  Wai,  the  river  was  high  an'  swift.  But  this  was  a 
long  stretch  with  good  landin'  way  below  on  the  other 
side.  We  got  the  boat  in,  an'  by  rowin'  hard  an'  driftin' 
we  got  acrost,  leadin'  the  hosses.  We  had  five  when  we 
took  to  the  river.  Two  went  down  on  the  way  over. 
We  climbed  out  then.  The  Piutes  went  to  find  some 
Navajos  an'  get  hosses.  An'  I  headed  fer  the  Ford — 
made  camp  twice.  An'  Joel  seen  me  comin'  out  a  ways." 

"Creech,  was  there  anythin'  left  in  thet  boat?"  began 
Brackton,  with  intense  but  pondering  curiosity.  "Any- 
thin'  on  the  ropes — or  so — thet  might  give  an  idee  who 
cut  her  loose?" 

Creech  made  no  reply  to  that.  The  gloom  burned 
darker  in  his  eyes.  He  seemed  a  man  with  a  secret.  He 
trusted  no  one  there.  These  men  were  all  friends  of  his, 
but  friends  under  strange  conditions.  His  silence  was 
tragic,  and  all  about  the  man  breathed  vengeance. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

NO  moon  showed  that  night,  and  few  stars  twinkled 
between  the  slow-moving  clouds.  The  air  was  thick 
and  oppressive,  full  of  the  day's  heat  that  had  not  blown 
away.  A  dry  storm  moved  in  dry  majesty  across  the 
horizon,  and  the  sheets  and  ropes  of  lightning,  blazing 
white  behind  the  black  monuments,  gave  weird  and  beau 
tiful  grandeur  to  the  desert. 

Lucy  Bostil  had  to  evade  her  aunt  to  get  out  of  the 
house,  and  the  window,  that  had  not  been  the  means  of 
exit  since  Bostil  left,  once  more  came  into  use.  Aunt 
Jane  had  grown  suspicious  of  late,  and  Lucy,  much  as  she 
wanted  to  trust  her  with  her  secret,  dared  not  do  it.  For 
some  reason  unknown  to  Lucy,  Holley  had  also  been  hard 
to  manage,  particularly  to-day.  Lucy  certainly  did  not 
want  Holley  to  accompany  her  on  her  nightly  rendezvous 
with  Slone.  She  changed  her  light  gown  to  the  darker 
and  thicker  riding-habit. 

There  was  a  longed-for,  all-satisfying  flavor  in  this 
night  adventure — something  that  had  not  all  to  do  with 
love.  The  stealth,  the  outwitting  of  guardians,  the  dark 
ness,  the  silence,  the  risk — all  these  called  to  some  deep, 
undeveloped  instinct  in  her,  and  thrilled  along  her  veins, 
cool,  keen,  exciting.  She  had  the  blood  in  her  of  the 
greatest  adventurer  of  his  day. 

Lucy  feared  she  was  a  little  late.  Allaying  the  sus 
picions  of  Aunt  Jane  and  changing  her  dress  had  taken 
time.  Lucy  hurried  with  less  cautious  steps.  Still  she 
had  only  used  caution  in  the  grove  because  she  had 
promised  Slone  to  do  so.  This  night  she  forgot  or  dis- 

249 


WILDFIRE 

regarded  it.  And  the  shadows  were  thick — darker  than 
at  any  other  time  when  she  had  undertaken  this  venture. 
She  had  always  been  a  little  afraid  of  the  dark — a  fact 
that  made  her  contemptuous  of  herself.  Nevertheless, 
she  did  not  peer  into  the  deeper  pits  of  gloom.  She  knew 
her  way  and  could  slip  swiftly  along  with  only  a  rustle  of 
leaves  she  touched. 

Suddenly  she  imagined  she  heard  a  step  and  she  halted, 
still  as  a  tree-trunk.  There  was  no  reason  to  be  afraid 
of  a  step.  It  had  been  a  surprise  to  her  that  she  had 
never  encountered  a  rider  walking  and  smoking  under  the 
trees.  Listening,  she  assured  herself  she  had  been  mis 
taken,  and  then  went  on.  But  she  looked  back.  Did 
she  see  a  shadow — darker  than  others — moving?  It  was 
only  her  imagination.  Yet  she  sustained  a  slight  chill. 
The  air  seemed  more  oppressive,  or  else  there  was  some 
intangible  and  strange  thing  hovering  in  it.  She  went 
on — reached  the  lane  that  divided  the  grove.  But  she 
did  not  cross  at  once.  It  was  lighter  in  this  lane;  she 
could  see  quite  far. 

As  she  stood  there,  listening,  keenly  responsive  to  all 
the  influences  of  the  night,  she  received  an  impression 
that  did  not  have  its  origin  in  sight  nor  sound.  And 
only  the  leaves  touched  her — and  only  their  dry  fragrance 
came  to  her.  But  she  felt  a  presence — a  strange,  inde 
finable  presence. 

But  Lucy  was  brave,  and  this  feeling,  whatever  it 
might  be,  angered  her.  She  entered  the  lane  and  stole 
swiftly  along  toward  the  end  of  the  grove.  Paths  crossed 
the  lane  at  right  angles,  and  at  these  points  she  went 
swifter.  It  would  be  something  to  tell  Slone — she  had 
been  frightened.  But  thought  of  him  drove  away  her 
fear  and  nervousness,  and  her  anger  with  herself. 

Then  she  came  to  a  wider  path.  She  scarcely  noted  it 
and  passed  on.  Then  came  a  quick  rustle — a  swift 
shadow.  Between  two  steps — as  her  heart  leaped — vio 
lent  arms  swept  her  off  the  ground.  A  hard  hand  was 

250 


WILDFIRE 

clapped  over  her  mouth.  She  was  being  carried  swiftly 
through  the  gloom. 

Lucy  tried  to  struggle.  She  could  scarcely  move  a 
muscle.  Iron  arms  wrapped  her  in  coils  that  crushed  her. 
She  tried  to  scream,  but  her  lips  were  tight-pressed. 
Her  nostrils  were  almost  closed  between  two  hard  fingers 
that  smelled  of  horse. 

Whoever  had  her,  she  was  helpless.  Lucy's  fury  ad 
mitted  of  reason.  Then  both  succumbed  to  a  paralyzing 
horror.  Cordts  had  got  her!  She  knew  it.  She  grew 
limp  as  a  rag  and  her  senses  dulled.  She  almost  fainted. 
The  sickening  paralysis  of  her  faculties  lingered.  But 
she  felt  her  body  released — she  was  placed  upon  her  feet — 
she  was  shaken  by  a  rough  hand.  She  swayed,  and  but 
for  that  hand  might  have  fallen.  She  could  see  a  tall, 
dark  form  over  her,  and  horses,  and  the  gloomy  gray  open 
of  the  sage  slope.  The  hand  left  her  face. 

"Don't  yap,  girl!"  This  command  in  a  hard,  low 
voice  pierced  her  ears.  She  saw  the  glint  of  a  gun  held 
before  her.  Instinctive  fear  revived  her  old  faculties. 
The  horrible  sick  weakness,  the  dimness,  the  shaking 
internal  collapse  all  left  her. 

"I'll — be — quiet!"  she  faltered.  She  knew  what  her 
father  had  always  feared  had  come  to  pass.  And  though 
she  had  been  told  to  put  no  value  on  her  life,  in  that  event, 
she  could  not  run.  All  in  an  instant — when  life  had  been 
so  sweet — she  could  not  face  pain  or  death. 

The  man  moved  back  a  step.  He  was  tall,  gaunt, 
ragged.  But  not  like  Cordts!  Never  would  she  forget 
Cordts.  She  peered  up  at  him.  In  the  dim  light  of  the 
few  stars  she  recognized  Joel  Creech's  father. 

"Oh,  thank  God!"  she  whispered,  in  the  shock  of 
blessed  relief.  "I  thought — you  were — Cordts!" 

"Keep  quiet!"  he  whispered  back,  sternly,  and  with 
rough  hand  he  shook  her. 

Lucy  awoke  to  realities.  Something  evil  menaced 
her,  even  though  this  man  was  not  Cordts.  Her  mind 

251 


WILDFIRE 

could  not  grasp  it.  She  was  amazed — stunned.  She 
struggled  to  speak,  yet  to  keep  within  that  warning 
command. 

"What — on  earth — does  this — mean?"  she  gasped,  very 
low.  She  had  no  sense  of  fear  of  Creech.  Once,  when  he 
and  her  father  had  been  friends,  she  had  been  a  favorite 
of  Creech's.  When  a  little  girl  she  had  ridden  his  knee 
many  times.  Between  Creech  and  Cordts  there  was  im 
measurable  distance.  Yet  she  had  been  violently  seized 
and  carried  out  into  the  sage  and  menaced. 

Creech  leaned  down.  His  gaunt  face,  lighted  by  ter 
rible  eyes,  made  her  recoil.  "Bostil  ruined  me — an* 
killed  my  hosses,"  he  whispered,  grimly.  "An'  I'm  tak- 
in'  you  away.  An'  I'll  hold  you  in  ransom  for  the  King — 
an'  Sarchedon — an'  all  his  racers!" 

"Oh!"  cried  Lucy,  in  startling  surprise  that  yet  held 
a  pang.  "Oh,  Creech!  .  .  .  Then  you  mean  me  no 
harm!" 

The  man  straightened  up  and  stood  a  moment,  darkly 
silent,  as  if  her  query  had  presented  a  new  aspect  of 
the  case.  "Lucy  Bostil,  I'm  a  broken  man  an'  wild 
an'  full  of  hate.  But  God  knows  I  never  thought  of 
thet — of  harm  to  you.  .  .  .  No,  child,  I  won't  harm 
you.  But  you  must  obey  an'  go  quietly,  for  there's  a 
devil  in  me." 

"Where  will  you  take  me?"  she  asked. 

"Down  in  the  canons,  where  no  one  can  track  me,"  he 
said.  "It  '11  be  hard  goin'  fer  you,  child,  an'  hard  fare. 
.  .  .  But  I'm  strikin'  at  Bostil' s  heart  as  he  has  broken 
mine.  I'll  send  him  word.  An*  111  tell  him  if  he  won't 
give  his  hosses  thet  I'll  sell  you  to  Cordts." 

"Oh,  Creech — but  you  wouldn't!"  she  whispered,  and 
her  hand  went  to  his  brawny  arm. 

"Lucy,  in  thet  case  I'd  make  as  poor  a  blackguard  as 
anythin'  else  I've  been,"  he  said,  forlornly.  "But  I'm 
figgerin'  Bostil  will  give  up  his  hosses  fer  you." 

"Creech,  I'm  afraid  he  won't.    You'd  better  give  me 

252 


WILDFIRE 

up.  Let  me  go  back.  I'll  never  tell.  I  don't  blame  you. 
I  think  you're  square.  My  dad  is.  ...  But,  oh,  don't 
make  me  suffer!  You  used  to — to  care  for  me,  when  I 
was  little." 

"Thet  ain't  no  use,"  he  replied.  "Don't  talk  no  more. 
.  .  .  Git  up  hyar  now  an'  ride  in  front  of  me." 

He  led  her  to  a  lean  mustang.  Lucy  swung  into  the 
saddle.  She  thought  how  singular  a  coincidence  it  was 
that  she  had  worn  a  riding-habit.  It  was  dark  and  thick, 
and  comfortable  for  riding.  Suppose  she  had  worn  the 
flimsy  dress,  in  which  she  had  met  Slone  every  night  save 
this  one?  Thought  of  Slone  gave  her  a  pang.  He  would 
wait  and  wait  and  wait.  He  would  go  back  to  his  cabin, 
not  knowing  what  had  befallen  her. 

Suddenly  Lucy  noticed  another  man,  near  at  hand, 
holding  two  mustangs.  He  mounted,  rode  before  her, 
and  then  she  recognized  Joel  Creech.  Assurance  of  this 
brought  back  something  of  the  dread.  But  the  father 
could  control  the  son! 

"Ride  on,"  said  Creech,  hitting  her  horse  from  behind. 

And  Lucy  found  herself  riding  single  file,  with  two  men 
and  a  pack-horse,  out  upon  the  windy,  dark  sage  slope. 
They  faced  the  direction  of  the  monuments,  looming  now 
and  then  so  weirdly  black  and  grand  against  the  broad 
flare  of  lightning-blazed  sky. 

Ever  since  Lucy  had  reached  her  teens  there  had  been 
predictions  that  she  would  be  kidnapped,  and  now  the 
thing  had  come  to  pass.  She  was  in  danger,  she  knew, 
but  in  infinitely  less  than  had  any  other  wild  character 
of  the  uplands  been  her  captor.  She  believed,  if  she 
went  quietly  and  obediently  with  Creech,  that  she  would 
be,  at  least,  safe  from  harm.  It  was  hard  luck  for  Bostil, 
she  thought,  but  no  worse  than  he  deserved.  Retribu 
tion  had  overtaken  him.  How  terribly  hard  he  would 
take  the  loss  of  his  horses!  Lucy  wondered  if  he  really 
ever  would  part  with  the  King,  even  to  save  her  from  priva 
tion  and  peril.  Bostil  was  more  likely  to  trail  her  with 

253 


WILDFIRE 

his  riders  and  to  kill  the  Creeches  than  to  concede  their 
demands.  Perhaps,  though,  that  threat  to  sell  her  to 
Cordts  would  frighten  the  hard  old  man. 

The  horses  trotted  and  swung  up  over  the  slope,  turn 
ing  gradually,  evidently  to  make  a  wide  detour  round  the 
Ford,  until  Lucy's  back  was  toward  the  monuments. 
Before  her  stretched  the  bleak,  barren,  dark  desert,  and 
through  the  opaque  gloom  she  could  see  nothing.  Lucy 
knew  she  was  headed  for  the  north,  toward  the  wild 
canons,  unknown  to  the  riders.  Cordts  and  his  gang  hid 
in  there.  What  might  not  happen  if  the  Creeches  fell  in 
with  Cordts?  Lucy's  confidence  sustained  a  check.  Still, 
she  remembered  the  Creeches  were  like  Indians.  And 
what  would  Slone  do?  He  would  ride  out  on  her  trail. 
Lucy  shivered  for  the  Creeches  if  Slone  ever  caught  up 
with  them,  and  remembering  his  wild-horse-hunter's  skill 
at  tracking,  and  the  fleet  and  tireless  Wildfire,  she  grew 
convinced  that  Creech  could  not  long  hold  her  captive. 
For  Slone  would  be  wary.  He  would  give  no  sign  of  his 
pursuit.  He  would  steal  upon  the  Creeches  in  the  dark 
and —  Lucy  shivered  again.  What  an  awful  fate  had 
been  that  of  Dick  Sears! 

So  as  she  rode  on  Lucy's  mind  was  full.  She  was  used 
to  riding,  and  in  the  motion  of  a  horse  there  was  some 
thing  in  harmony  with  her  blood.  Even  now,  with 
worry  and  dread  and  plotting  strong  upon  her,  habit  had 
such  power  over  her  that  riding  made  the  hours  fleet. 
She  was  surprised  to  be  halted,  to  see  dimly  low,  dark 
mounds  of  rock  ahead. 

"Git  off,"  said  Creech. 

"Where  are  we?"  asked  Lucy. 

"Reckon  hyar's  the  rocks.  An*  you  sleep  some,  fer 
you'll  need  it."  He  spread  a  blanket,  laid  her  saddle 
at  the  head  of  it,  and  dropped  another  blanket.  "What 
I  want  to  know  is — shall  I  tie  you  up  or  not?"  asked 
Creech.  "If  I  do  you'll  git  sore.  An'  this '11  be  the 
toughest  trip  you  ever  made." 

254 


LUCY  PONDERED.  SHE  DIVINED  SOME  FINENESS  OF  FEELING  IN  THIS 
COARSE  MAN.  HE  WANTED  TO  SPARE  HER  NOT  ONLY  PAIN,  BUT 
THE  NECESSITY  OF  WATCHFUL  EYES  ON  HER  EVERY  MOVEMENT 


WILDFIRE 

"You  mean  will  I  try  to  get  away  from  you — or  not?" 
queried  Lucy. 

"Jest  thet." 

Lucy  pondered.  She  divined  some  fineness  of  feeling 
in  this  coarse  man.  He  wanted  to  spare  her  not  only 
pain,  but  the  necessity  of  watchful  eyes  on  her  every 
moment.  Lucy  did  not  like  to  promise  not  to  try  to 
escape,  if  opportunity  presented.  Still,  she  reasoned, 
that  once  deep  in  the  canons,  where  she  would  be  in 
another  day,  she  would  be  worse  off  if  she  did  get  away. 
The  memory  of  Cordts's  cavernous,  hungry  eyes  upon  her 
was  not  a  small  factor  in  Lucy's  decision. 

"Creech,  if  I  give  my  word  not  to  try  to  get  away, 
would  you  believe  me?"  she  asked. 

Creech  was  slow  in  replying.  "Reckon  I  would,"  he 
said,  finally. 

"All  right,  I'll  give  it." 

"An'  thet's  sense.     Now  you  lay  down." 

Lucy  did  as  she  was  bidden  and  pulled  the  blanket  over 
her.  The  place  was  gloomy  and  still.  She  heard  the 
sound  of  mustangs'  teeth  on  grass,  and  the  soft  footfalls  of 
the  men.  Presently  these  sounds  ceased.  A  cold  wind 
blew  over  her  face  and  rustled  in  the  sage  near  her. 
Gradually  the  chill  passed  away,  and  a  stealing  warmth 
took  its  place.  Her  eyes  grew  tired.  What  had  hap 
pened  to  her?  With  eyes  closed  she  thought  it  was  all 
a  dream.  Then  the  feeling  of  the  hard  saddle  as  a  pil 
low  under  her  head  told  her  she  was  indeed  far  from  her 
comfortable  little  room.  What  would  poor  Aunt  Jane 
do  in  the  morning  when  she  discovered  who  was  missing? 
What  would  Holley  do?  When  would  Bostil  return?  It 
might  be  soon  and  it  might  be  days.  And  Slone — Lucy 
felt  sorriest  for  him.  For  he  loved  her  best.  She  thrilled 
at  thought  of  Slone  on  that  grand  horse — on  her  Wildfire. 
And  with  her  mind  running  on  and  on,  seemingly  making 
sleep  impossible,  the  thoughts  at  last  became  dreams. 

Lucy  awakened  at  dawn.  One  hand  ached  with  cold, 

255 


WILDFIRE 

for  it  had  been  outside  the  blanket.  Her  hard  bed  had 
cramped  her  muscles.  She  heard  the  crackling  of  fire 
and  smelled  cedar  smoke.  In  the  gray  of  morning  she 
saw  the  Creeches  round  a  camp-fire. 

Lucy  got  up  then.  Both  men  saw  her,  but  made  no 
comment.  In  that  cold,  gray  dawn  she  felt  her  predica 
ment  more  gravely.  Her  hair  was  damp.  She  had  rid 
den  nearly  all  night  without  a  hat.  She  had  absolutely 
nothing  of  her  own  except  what  was  on  her  body.  But 
Lucy  thanked  her  lucky  stars  that  she  had  worn  the  thick 
riding-suit  and  her  boots,  for  otherwise,  in  a  summer 
dress,  her  condition  would  soon  have  been  miserable. 

"Come  an'  eat,"  said  Creech.  "You  have  sense — an' 
eat  if  it  sticks  in  your  throat." 

Bostil  had  always  contended  in  his  arguments  with 
riders  that  a  man  should  eat  heartily  on  the  start  of  a 
trip  so  that  the  finish  might  find  him  strong.  And  Lucy 
ate,  though  the  coarse  fare  sickened  her.  Once  she  looked 
curiously  at  Joel  Creech.  She  felt  his  eyes  upon  her,  but 
instantly  he  averted  them.  He  had  grown  more  haggard 
and  sullen  than  ever  before. 

The  Creeches  did  not  loiter  over  the  camp  tasks.  Lucy 
was  left  to  herself.  The  place  appeared  to  be  a  kind  of 
depression  from  which  the  desert  rolled  away  to  a  bulge 
against  the  rosy  east,  and  the  rocks  behind  rose  broken 
and  yellow,  fringed  with  cedars. 

"Git  the  bosses  in,  if  you  want  to,"  Creech  called  to 
her,  and  then  as  Lucy  started  off  to  where  the  mustangs 
grazed  she  heard  him  curse  his  son.  "Come  back  hyar! 
Leave  the  girl  alone  or  I'll  rap  you  one !" 

Lucy  drove  three  of  the  mustangs  into  camp,  where 
Creech  began  to  saddle  them.  The  remaining  one,  the 
pack  animal,  Lucy  found  among  the  scrub  cedars  at  the 
base  of  the  low  cliffs.  When  she  drove  him  in  Creech  was 
talking  hard  to  Joel,  who  had  mounted. 

"When  you  come  back,  work  up  this  canon  till  you  git 
up.  It  heads  on  the  pine  plateau,  I  can't  miss  seein' 

256 


WILDFIRE 

you,  or  any  one,  long  before  you  git  up  on  top.  An* 
you  needn't  come  without  Bostil's  bosses.  You  know 
what  to  tell  Bostil  if  he  threatens  you,  or  refuses  to  send 
his  hosses,  or  turns  his  riders  on  my  trail.  Thet's  all. 
Now  git!" 

Joel  Creech  rode  away  toward  the  rise  in  the  rolling, 
barren  desert. 

"An*  now  we'll  go  on,"  said  Creech  to  Lucy. 

When  he  had  gotten  all  in  readiness  he  ordered  Lucy 
to  follow  closely  in  his  tracks.  He  entered  a  narrow  cleft 
in  the  low  cliffs  which  wound  in  and  out,  and  was  thick 
with  sage  and  cedars.  Lucy,  riding  close  to  the  cedars, 
conceived  the  idea  of  plucking  the  little  green  berries 
and  dropping  them  on  parts  of  the  trail  where  their 
tracks  would  not  show.  Warily  she  filled  the  pockets 
of  her  jacket. 

Creech  led  the  way  without  looking  back,  and  did  not 
seem  to  care  where  the  horses  stepped.  The  time  had  not 
yet  come,  Lucy  concluded,  when  he  was  ready  to  hide  his 
trail.  Presently  the  narrow  cleft  opened  into  a  low-walled 
canon,  full  of  debris  from  the  rotting  cliffs,  and  this  in 
turn  opened  into  a  main  canon  with  mounting  yellow 
crags.  It  appeared  to  lead  north.  Far  in  the  distance 
above  rims  and  crags  rose  in  a  long,  black  line  like  a 
horizon  of  dark  cloud. 

Creech  crossed  this  wide  canon  and  entered  one  of  the 
many  breaks  in  the  wall.  This  one  was  full  of  splintered 
rock  and  weathered  shale — the  hardest  kind  of  travel  for 
both  man  and  beast.  Lucy  was  nothing  if  not  considerate 
of  a  horse,  and  here  she  began  to  help  her  animal  in  all 
the  ways  a  good  rider  knows.  Much  as  this  taxed  her 
attention,  she  remembered  to  drop  some  of  the  cedar 
berries  upon  hard  ground  or  rocks.  And  she  knew  she 
was  leaving  a  trail  for  Slone's  keen  eyes. 

That  day  was  the  swiftest  and  the  most  strenuous  in 
all  Lucy  Bostil's  experience  in  the  open.  At  sunset,  when 

257 


WILDFIRE 

Creech  halted  in  a  niche  in  a  gorge  between  lowering 
cliffs,  Lucy  fell  off  her  horse  and  lay  still  and  spent  on  the 
grass. 

Creech  had  a  glance  of  sympathy  and  admiration  for 
her,  but  he  did  not  say  anything  about  the  long  day's 
ride.  Lucy  never  in  her  life  before  appreciated  rest  nor 
the  softness  of  grass  nor  the  relief  at  the  end  of  a  ride. 
She  lay  still  with  a  throbbing,  burning  ache  in  all  her  body. 
Creech,  after  he  had  turned  the  horses  loose,  brought  her 
a  drink  of  cold  water  from  the  brook  she  heard  some 
where  near  by. 

"How — far — did — we — come?"  she  whispered. 

"By  the  way  round  I  reckon  nigh  onto  sixty  miles," 
he  replied.  "But  we  ain't  half  thet  far  from  where  we 
camped  last  night." 

Then  he  set  to  work  at  camp  tasks.  Lucy  shook  her 
head  when  he  brought  her  food,  but  he  insisted,  and  she 
had  to  force  it  down.  Creech  appeared  rough  but  kind. 
After  she  had  become  used  to  the  hard,  gaunt,  black  face 
she  saw  sadness  and  thought  in  it.  One  thing  Lucy  had 
noticed  was  that  Creech  never  failed  to  spare  a  horse,  if 
it  was  possible.  He  would  climb  on  foot  over  bad  places. 

Night  soon  mantled  the  gorge  in  blackness  thick  as 
pitch.  Lucy  could  not  tell  whether  her  eyes  were  open 
or  shut,  so  far  as  what  she  saw  was  concerned.  Her  eyes 
seemed  filled,  however,  with  a  thousand  pictures  of  the 
wild  and  tortuous  canons  and  gorges  through  which  she 
had  ridden  that  day.  The  ache  in  her  limbs  and  the 
fever  in  her  blood  would  not  let  her  sleep.  It  seemed  that 
these  were  forever  to  be  a  part  of  her.  For  twelve  hours 
she  had  ridden  and  walked  with  scarce  a  thought  of  the 
nature  of  the  wild  country,  yet  once  she  lay  down  to  rest 
her  mind  was  an  endless  hurrying  procession  of  pictures 
— narrow  red  clefts  choked  with  green  growths — yellow 
gorges  and  weathered  slides — dusty,  treacherous  divides 
connecting  canons — jumbles  of  ruined  cliffs  and  piles  of 
shale — miles  and  miles  and  endless  winding  miles  of 

258 


WILDFIRE 

yellow,  low,  beetling  walls.  And  through  it  all  she  had 
left  a  trail. 

Next  day  Creech  climbed  out  of  that  low-walled  canon, 
and  Lucy  saw  a  wild,  rocky  country  cut  by  gorges,  green 
and  bare,  or  yellow  and  cedared.  The  long,  black- 
fringed  line  she  had  noticed  the  day  before  loomed  closer, 
overhanging  this  crisscrossed  region  of  canons.  Every 
half -hour  Creech  would  lead  them  downward  and  pres 
ently  climb  out  again.  There  were  sand  and  hard  ground 
and  thick  turf  and  acres  and  acres  of  bare  rock  where 
even  a  shod  horse  would  not  leave  a  track. 

But  the  going  was  not  so  hard — there  was  not  so  much 
travel  on  foot  for  Lucy — and  she  finished  that  day  in  better 
condition  than  the  first  one. 

Next  day  Creech  proceeded  with  care  and  caution. 
Many  times  he  left  the  direct  route,  bidding  Lucy  wait 
for  him,  and  he  would  ride  to  the  rims  of  canons  or  the 
tops  of  ridges  of  cedar  forests,  and  from  these  vantage- 
points  he  would  survey  the  country.  Lucy  gathered 
after  a  while  that  he  was  apprehensive  of  what  might  be 
encountered,  and  particularly  so  of  what  might  be  feared 
in  pursuit.  Lucy  thought  this  strange,  because  it  was 
out  of  the  question  for  any  one  to  be  so  soon  on  Creech's 
trail. 

These  peculiar  actions  of  Creech  were  more  noticeable 
on  the  third  day,  and  Lucy  grew  apprehensive  herself. 
She  could  not  divine  why.  But  when  Creech  halted  on 
a  high  crest  that  gave  a  sweeping  vision  of  the  broken 
table-land  they  had  traversed  Lucy  made  out  for  herself 
faint  moving  specks  miles  behind. 

"I  reckon  you  see  thet,"  said  Creech 

"Horses,"  replied  Lucy. 

He  nodded  his  head  gloomily,  and  seemed  pondering  a 
serious  question. 

"Is  some  one  trailing  us?"  asked  Lucy,  and  she  could 
not  keep  the  tremor  out  of  her  voice. 

"Wai,  I  should  smile!    Per  two  days — an'  it  sure  beats 

18  259 


WILDFIRE 

me.    They've  never  had  a  sight  of  us.    But  they  keep 
comin'." 

"They!    Who?"  she  asked,  swiftly. 

"I  hate  to  tell  you,  but  I  reckon  I  ought.  Thet's 
Cordts  an'  two  of  his  gang." 

"Oh — don't  tell  me  so!"  cried  Lucy,  suddenly  terrified. 
Mention  of  Cordts  had  not  always  had  power  to  frighten 
her,  but  this  time  she  had  a  return  of  that  shaking  fear 
which  had  overcome  her  in  the  grove  the  night  she  was 
captured. 

"Cordts  all  right,"  replied  Creech.  "I  knowed  thet 
before  I  seen  him.  Fer  two  mornin's  back  I  seen  his  hoss 
grazin  in  thet  wide  canon.  But  I  thought  I'd  slipped  by. 
Some  one  seen  us.  Or  they  seen  our  trail.  Anyway, 
he's  after  us.  What  beats  me  is  how  he  sticks  to  thet 
trail.  Cordts  never  was  no  tracker.  An'  since  Dick 
Sears  is  dead  there  ain't  a  tracker  in  Cordts's  outfit.  An' 
I  always  could  hide  my  tracks.  .  .  .  Beats  me!" 

"Creech,  I've  been  leaving  a  trail,"  confessed  Lucy. 

"What!" 

Then  she  told  him  how  she  had  been  dropping  cedar 
berries  and  bits  of  cedar  leaves  along  the  bare  and  stony 
course  they  had  traversed. 

"Wai,  I'm—"  Creech  stifled  an  oath.  Then  he 
laughed,  but  gruffly.  "You  air  a  cute  one.  But  I  reckon 
you  didn't  promise  not  to  do  thet.  .  .  .  An'  now  if  Cordts 
gits  you  there'll  be  only  yourself  to  blame." 

"Oh!"  cried  Lucy,  frantically  looking  back.  The 
moving  specks  were  plainly  in  sight.  "How  can  he  know 
he's  trailing  me?" 

"Thet  I  can't  say.  Mebbe  he  doesn't  know.  His 
hosses  air  fresh,  though,  an'  if  I  can't  shake  him  he'll 
find  out  soon  enough  who  he's  trailin'." 

"Go  on!  We  must  shake  him.  I'll  never  do  that 
again! .  .  .  For  God's  sake,  Creech,  don't  let  him  get  me!" 

And  Creech  led  down  off  the  high  open  land  into  canons 
again. 

260 


WILDFIRE 

The  day  ended,  and  the  night  seemed  a  black  blank  to 
Lucy.  Another  sunrise  found  Creech  leading  on,  sparing 
neither  Lucy  nor  the  horses.  He  kept  on  a  steady  walk 
or  trot,  and  he  picked  out  ground  less  likely  to  leave  any 
tracks.  Like  an  old  deer  he  doubled  on  his  trail.  He 
traveled  down  stream-beds  where  the  water  left  no  trail. 
That  day  the  mustangs  began  to  fail.  The  others  were 
wearing  out. 

The  canons  ran  like  the  ribs  of  a  wash-board.  And 
they  grew  deep  and  verdant,  with  looming,  towered  walls. 
That  night  Lucy  felt  lost  in  an  abyss.  The  dream 
ing  silence  kept  her  awake  many  moments  while 
sleep  had  already  seized  upon  her  eyelids.  And  then 
she  dreamed  of  Cordts  capturing  her,  of  carrying  her 
miles  deeper  into  these  wild  and  purple  cliffs,  of  Slone  in 
pursuit  on  the  stallion  Wildfire,  and  of  a  savage  fight. 
And  she  awoke  terrified  and  cold  in  the  blackness  of  the 
night. 

On  the  next  day  Creech  traveled  west.  This  seemed 
to  Lucy  to  be  far  to  the  left  of  the  direction  taken  be 
fore.  And  Lucy,  in  spite  of  her  utter  weariness,  and  the 
necessity  of  caring  for  herself  and  her  horse,  could  not 
but  wonder  at  the  wild  and  frowning  canon.  It  was  only 
a  tributary  of  the  great  canon,  she  supposed,  but  it  was 
different,  strange,  impressive,  yet  intimate,  because  all 
about  it  was  overpowering,  near  at  hand,  even  the  beet 
ling  crags.  And  at  every  turn  it  seemed  impossible  to 
go  farther  over  that  narrow  and  rock-bestrewn  floor.  Yet 
Creech  found  a  way  on. 

Then  came  hours  of  climbing  such  slopes  and  benches* 
and  ledges  as  Lucy  had  not  yet  encountered.  The  grasp 
ing  spikes  of  dead  cedar  tore  her  dress  to  shreds,  and  many 
a  scratch  burned  her  flesh.  About  the  middle  of  the 
afternoon  Creech  led  up  over  the  last  declivity,  a  yellow 
slope  of  cedar,  to  a  flat  upland  covered  with  pine  and 
high  bleached  grass.  They  rested. 

"  We've  fooled  Cordts,  you  can  be  sure  of  thet,"  said 

261 


WILDFIRE 

Creech.  "You're  a  game  kid,  an',  by  Gawd!  if  I  had  this 
job  to  do  over  I'd  never  tackle  it  again!" 

"Oh,  you're  sure  we've  lost  him?"  implored  Lucy. 

"Sure  as  I  am  of  death.  An'  we'll  make  surer  in 
crossin'  this  bench.  It's  miles  to  the  other  side  where 
I'm  to  keep  watch  fer  Joel.  An'  we  won't  leave  a  track 
all  the  way." 

"But  this  grass?"  questioned  Lucy.  "It'll  show  our 
tracks." 

"Look  at  the  lanes  an'  trails  between.  All  pine  mats 
thick  an'  soft  an'  springy.  Only  an  Indian  could  follow 
us  hyar  on  Wild  Hoss  Bench." 

Lucy  gazed  before  her  under  the  pines.  It  was  a  beau 
tiful  forest,  with  trees  standing  far  apart,  yet  not  so  far 
but  that  their  foliage  intermingled.  A  dry  fragrance, 
thick  as  a  heavy  perfume,  blew  into  her  face.  She  could 
not  help  but  think  of  fire — how  it  would  race  through 
here,  and  that  recalled  Joel  Creech's  horrible  threat. 
Lucy  shuddered  and  put  away  the  memory. 

"I  can't  go — any  farther — to-day,"  she  said. 

Creech  looked  at  her  compassionately.  Then  Lucy 
became  conscious  that  of  late  he  had  softened. 

"You'll  have  to  come,"  he  said.  "There's  no  water 
on  this  side,  short  of  thet  canon-bed.  An'  acrost  there's 
water  close  under  the  wall." 

So  they  set  out  into  the  forest.  And  Lucy  found  that 
after  all  she  could  go  on.  The  horses  walked  and  on  the 
soft,  springy  ground  did  not  jar  her.  Deer  and  wild 
turkey  abounded  there  and  showed  little  alarm  at  sight 
of  the  travelers.  And  before  long  Lucy  felt  that  she 
would  become  intoxicated  by  the  dry  odor.  It  was  so 
strong,  so  thick,  so  penetrating.  Yet,  though  she  felt 
she  would  reel  under  its  influence,  it  revived  her. 

The  afternoon  passed;  the  sun  set  off  through  the 
pines,  a  black-streaked,  golden  flare;  twilight  shortly 
changed  to  night.  The  trees  looked  spectral  in  the 
gloom,  and  the  forest  appeared  to  grow  thicker.  Wolves 

262 


WILDFIRE 

murmured,  and  there  were  wild  cries  of  cat  and  owl. 
Lucy  fell  asleep  on  her  horse.  At  last,  sometime  late  in 
the  night,  when  Creech  lifted  her  from  the  saddle  and 
laid  her  down,  she  stretched  out  on  the  soft  mat  of  pine 
needles  and  knew  no  more. 

She  did  not  awaken  until  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day. 

The  site  where  Creech  had  made  his  final  camp  over 
looked  the  wildest  of  all  that  wild  upland  country.  The 
pines  had  scattered  and  trooped  around  a  beautiful  park 
of  grass  that  ended  abruptly  upon  bare  rock.  Yellow 
crags  towered  above  the  rim,  and  under  them  a  yawn 
ing  narrow  gorge,  overshadowed  from  above,  blue  in  its 
depths,  split  the  end  of  the  great  plateau  and  opened  out 
sheer  into  the  head  of  the  canon,  which,  according  to 
Creech,  stretched  away  through  that  wilderness  of  red 
stone  and  green  clefts.  When  Lucy's  fascinated  gaze 
looked  afar  she  was  stunned  at  the  vast,  billowy,  bare 
surfaces.  Every  green  cleft  was  a  short  canon  running  par 
allel  with  this  central  and  longer  one.  The  dips  and  breaks 
showed  how  all  these  canons  were  connected.  They  led 
the  gaze  away,  descending  gradually  to  the  dim  purple 
of  distance — the  bare,  rolling  desert  upland. 

Lucy  did  nothing  but  gaze.  She  was  unable  to  walk 
or  eat  that  day.  Creech  hung  around  her  with  a  remorse 
he  apparently  felt,  yet  could  not  put  into  words. 

"Do  you  expect  Joel  to  come  up  this  big  canon?" 

"I  reckon  I  do — some  day,"  replied  Creech.  "An"  I 
wish  he'd  hurry." 

"Does  fc*  know  t&e  way?" 

"Nope.  But  ke's  good  at  findin*  places.  An'  I  told 
him  to  stick  to  the  main  cation.  Would  you  believe  you 
could  ride  off  er  this  rim,  straight  down  thar  fer  fifty 
miles,  an*  never  git  off  your  hoss?" 

"No,  I  wouldn't  believe  it  possible." 

"Wai,  it's  so.  I've  done  it.  An'  I  didn't  want  to  come 
up  thet  way  because  I'd  had  to  leave  tracks." 

263 


WILDFIRE 

"  Do  you  think  we're  safe — from  Cordts  now  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  reckon  so.     He's  no  tracker." 

"But  suppose  he  does  trail  us?" 

"Wai,  I  reckon  I've  a  shade  the  best  of  Cordts  at  gun 
play,  any  day." 

Lucy  regarded  the  man  in  surprise.  "Oh,  it's  so — 
strange!"  she  said.  "You'd  fight  for  me.  Yet  you 
dragged  me  for  days  over  these  awful  rocks!  .  .  .  Look 
at  me,  Creech.  Do  I  look  much  like  Lucy  Bostil?" 

Creech  hung  his  head.  "Wai,  I  reckoned  I  wasn't  a 
blackguard,  but  I  am" 

"You  used  to  care  for  me  when  I  was  little.  I  remem 
ber  how  I  used  to  take  rides  on  your  knee." 

"Lucy,  I  never  thought  of  thet  when  I  ketched  you. 
You  was  only  a  means  to  an  end.  Bostil  hated  me.  He 
ruined  me.  I  give  up  to  revenge.  An'  I  could  only  git 
thet  through  you." 

"Creech,  I'm  not  defending  Dad.  He's — he's  no  good 
where  horses  are  concerned.  I  know  he  wronged  you. 
Then  why  didn't  you  wait  and  meet  him  like  a  man 
instead  of  dragging  me  to  this  misery?" 

"Wai,  I  never  thought  of  thet,  either.  I  wished  I  had." 
He  grew  gloomier  then  and  relapsed  into  silent  watching. 

Lucy  felt  better  next  day,  and  offered  to  help  Creech 
at  the  few  camp  duties.  He  would  not  let  her.  There 
was  nothing  to  do  but  rest  and  wait,  and  the  idleness 
appeared  to  be  harder  on  Creech  than  on  Lucy.  He  had 
always  been  exceedingly  active.  Lucy  divined  that 
every  hour  his  remorse  grew  keener,  and  she  did  all  she 
could  think  of  to  make  it  so.  Creech  made  her  a  rude 
brush  by  gathering  small  roots  and  binding  them  tightly 
and  cutting  the  ends  square.  And  Lucy,  after  the  man 
ner  of  an  Indian,  got  the  tangles  out  of  her  hair.  That 
day  Creech  seemed  to  want  to  hear  Lucy's  voice,  and  so 
they  often  fell  into  conversation.  Once  he  said,  thought 
fully: 

264 


WILDFIRE 

"I'm  tryin'  to  remember  somethin'  I  heerd  at  the  Ford. 
I  meant  to  ask  you — "  Suddenly  he  turned  to  her  with 
animation.  He  who  had  been  so  gloomy  and  lusterless 
and  dead  showed  a  bright  eagerness.  "I  heerd  you  beat 
the  King  on  a  red  hoss — a  wild  hoss ! .  .  .  Thet  must  have 
been  a  joke — like  one  of  Joel's." 

"No.     It's  true.     An'  Dad  nearly  had  a  fit!" 

"Wai!"  Creech  simply  blazed  with  excitement.  "I 
ain't  wonderin'  if  he  did.  His  own  girl!  Lucy,  come 
to  remember,  you  always  said  you'd  beat  thet  gray  racer. 
.  .  .  Per  the  Lord's  sake  tell  me  all  about  it." 

Lucy  warmed  to  him  because,  broken  as  he  was,  he  could 
be  genuinely  glad  some  horse  but  his  own  had  won  a  race. 
Bostil  could  never  have  been  like  that.  So  Lucy  told 
him  about  the  race — and  then  she  had  to  tell  about  Wild 
fire,  and  then  about  Slone.  But  at  first  all  of  Creech's 
interest  centered  round  Wildfire  and  the  race  that  had 
not  really  been  run.  He  asked  a  hundred  questions.  He 
was  as  pleased  as  a  boy  listening  to  a  good  story.  He 
praised  Lucy  again  and  again.  He  crowed  over  Bostil's 
discomfiture.  And  when  Lucy  told  him  that  Slone  had 
dared  her  father  to  race,  had  offered  to  bet  Wildfire  and  his 
own  life  against  her  hand,  then  Creech  was  beside  himself. 

"This  hyar  Slone— he  called  Bostil's  hand!" 

"He's  a  wild-horse  hunter.    And  he  can  trail  us!" 

"Trail  us!  Slone? .  .  .  Say,  Lucy,  are  you  in  love  with 
him?" 

Lucy  uttered  a  strange  little  broken  sound,  half  laugh, 
half  sob.  "Love  him!  Ah!" 

"An'  your  Dad's  ag'in  him!  Sure  Bostil '11  hate  any 
rider  with  a  fast  hoss.  Why  didn't  the  darn  fool  sell  his 
stallion  to  your  father?" 

"He'gave  Wildfire  to  me." 

"I'd  have  done  the  same.  Wai,  now,  when  you  git 
back  home  what's  comin'  of  it  all?" 

Lucy  shook  her  head  sorrowfully.  "God  only  knows. 
Dad  will  never  own  Wildfire,  and  he'll  never  let  me 

265 


WILDFIRE 

marry  Slone.  And  when  you  take  the  King  away  from 
him  to  ransom  me — then  my  life  will  be  hell,  for  if  Dad 
sacrifices  Sage  King,  afterward  he'll  hate  me  as  the 
cause  of  his  loss." 

"I  can  sure  see  the  sense  of  all  that,"  replied  Creech, 
soberly.  And  he  pondered. 

Lucy  saw  through  this  man  as  if  he  had  been  an  inch 
of  crystal  water.  He  was  no  villain,  and  just  now  in 
his  simplicity,  in  his  plodding  thought  of  sympathy  for 
her  he  was  lovable. 

"It's  one  hell  of  a  muss,  if  you'll  excuse  my  talk,"  said 
Creech.  "An'  I  don't  like  the  looks  of  what  I  'pear  to 
be  throwin'  in  your  way.  .  .  .  But  see  hyar,  Lucy,  if  Bostil 
didn't  give  up — or,  say,  he  gits  the  Bang  back,  thet 
wouldn't  make  your  chance  with  Slone  any  brighter." 

"I  don't  know." 

" Thet  race  will  have  to  be  run!" 

"What  good  will  that  do?"  cried  Lucy,  with  tears  in 
her  eyes.  "I  don't  want  to  lose  Dad.  I — I — love  him — 
mean  as  he  is.  And  it  '11  kill  me  to  lose  Lin.  Because 
Wildfire  can  beat  Sage  King,  and  that  means  Dad  will  be 
forever  against  him." 

"Couldn't  this  wild-horse  feller  let  the  King  win  thet 
race?" 

"Oh,  he  could,  but  he  wouldn't." 

"Can't  you  be  sweet  round  him — fetch  him  over  to 
thet?" 

"Oh,  I  could,  but  I  won't." 

Creech  might  have  been  plotting  the  happiness  of  his 
own  daughter,  he  was  so  deeply  in  earnest. 

"Wai,  mebbe  you  don't  love  each  other  so  much,  after 
all.  ...  Fast  hosses  mean  much  to  a  man  in  this  hyar 
country.  I  know,  fer  I  lost  mine!  .  .  .  But  they  ain't  all. 
...  I  reckon  you  young  folks  don't  love  so  much,  after 
all." 

"But — we — do!"  cried  Lucy,  with  a  passionate  sob. 
All  this  talk  had  unnerved  her. 

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WILDFIRE 

"Then  the  only  way  is  fer  Slone  to  lie  to  Bostil." 

"Lie!"  exclaimed  Lucy. 

"Thet's  it.  Fetch  about  a  race,  somehow — one  Bostil 
can't  see — an'  then  lie  an'  say  the  King  run  Wildfire  off 
his  legs." 

Suddenly  it  occurred  to  Lucy  that  one  significance  of 
this  idea  of  Creech's  had  not  dawned  upon  him.  "You 
forget  that  soon  my  father  will  no  longer  own  Sage  King 
or  Sarchedon  or  Dusty  Ben — or  any  racer.  He  loses  them 
or  me,  I  thought.  That's  what  I  am  here  for." 

Creech's  aspect  changed.  The  eagerness  and  sympathy 
fled  from  his  face,  leaving  it  once  more  hard  and  stern.  He 
got  up  and  stood  a  tall,  dark,  and  gloomy  man,  brooding 
over  his  loss,  as  he  watched  the  canon.  Still,  there  was  in 
him  then  a  struggle  that  Lucy  felt.  Presently  he  bent  over 
and  put  his  big  hand  on  her  head.  It  seemed  gentle  and 
tender  compared  with  former  contacts,  and  it  made  Lucy 
thrill.  She  could  not  see  his  face.  What  did  he  mean? 
She  divined  something  startling,  and  sat  there  trembling 
in  suspense. 

"Bostil  won't  lose  his  only  girl — or  his  favorite  hoss! 
. . .  Lucy,  I  never  had  no  girl.  But  it  seems  I'm  remember- 
in'  them  rides  you  used  to  have  on  my  knee  when  you  was 
little!" 

Then  he  strode  away  toward  the  forest.  Lucy  watched 
him  with  a  full  heart,  and  as  she  thought  of  his  overcoming 
the  evil  in  him  when  her  father  had  yielded  to  it,  she 
suffered  poignant  shame.  This  Creech  was  not  a  bad 
man.  He  was  going  to  let  her  go,  and  he  was  going  to 
return  Bostil's  horses  when  they  came.  Lucy  resolved 
with  a  passionate  determination  that  her  father  must 
make  ample  restitution  for  the  loss  Creech  had  endured. 
She  meant  to  tell  Creech  so. 

Upon  his  return,  however,  he  seemed  so  strange  and  for 
bidding  again  that  her  heart  failed  her.  Had  he  recon 
sidered  his  generous  thought?  Lucy  almost  believed  so. 
These  old  horse-traders  were  incomprehensible  in  any  re- 

267 


WILDFIRE 

lation  concerning  horses.  Recalling  Creech's  intense  in 
terest  in  Wildfire  and  in  the  inevitable  race  to  be  run 
between  him  and  Sage  King,  Lucy  almost  believed  that 
Creech  would  sacrifice  his  vengeance  just  to  see  the  red 
stallion  beat  the  gray.  If  Creech  kept  the  King  in  ran 
som  for  Lucy  he  would  have  to  stay  deeply  hidden  in  the 
wild  breaks  of  the  canon  country  or  leave  the  uplands. 
For  Bostil  would  never  let  that  deed  go  unreckoned  with. 
Like  Bostil,  old  Creech  was  half  horse  and  half  human. 
The  human  side  had  warmed  to  remorse.  He  had  regret 
ted  Lucy's  plight ;  he  wanted  her  to  be  safe  at  home  again 
and  to  rind  happiness ;  he  remembered  what  she  had  been 
to  him  when  she  was  a  little  girl.  Creech's  other  side 
was  more  complex. 

Before  the  evening  meal  ended  Lucy  divined  that 
Creech  was  dark  and  troubled  because  he  had  resigned 
himself  to  a  sacrifice  harder  than  it  had  seemed  in  the 
first  flush  of  noble  feeling.  But  she  doubted  him  no  more. 
She  was  safe.  The  King  would  be  returned.  She  would 
compel  her  father  to  pay  Creech  horse  for  horse.  And 
perhaps  the  lesson  to  Bostil  would  be  worth  all  the  pain 
of  effort  and  distress  of  mind  that  it  had  cost  her. 

That  night  as  she  lay  awake  listening  to  the  roar  of  the 
wind  in  the  pines  a  strange  premonition — like  a  mysterious 
voice — came  to  her  with  the  assurance  that  Slone  was  on 
her  trail. 

On  the  following  day  Creech  appeared  to  have  cast  off 
the  brooding  mood.  Still,  he  was  not  talkative.  He  ap 
plied  himself  to  constant  watching  from  the  rim. 

Lucy  began  to  feel  rested.  That  long  trip  with  Creech 
had  made  her  thin  and  hard  and  strong.  She  spent  the 
hours  under  the  shade  of  a  cedar  on  the  rim  that  pro 
tected  her  from  sun  and  wind.  The  wind,  particularly, 
was  hard  to  stand.  It  blew  a  gale  out  of  the  west,  a  dry, 
odorous,  steady  rush  that  roared  through  the  pine-tops 
and  flattened  the  long,  white  grass.  This  day  Creech 
had  to  build  up  a  barrier  of  rock  round  his  camp-fire,  to 

268 


WILDFIRE 

keep  it  from  blowing  away.  And  there  was  a  constant 
danger  of  firing  the  grass. 

Once  Lucy  asked  Creech  what  would  happen  in  that 
case. 

"Wai,  I  reckon  the  grass  would  burn  back  even  ag'in 
thet  wind,"  replied  Creech.  "I'd  hate  to  see  fire  in  the 
woods  now  before  the  rains  come.  It's  been  the  longest, 
dryest  spell  I  ever  lived  through.  But  fer  thet  my 
bosses —  This  hyar's  a  west  wind,  an'  it's  blowin'  harder 
every  day.  It  '11  fetch  the  rains." 

Next  day  about  noon,  when  both  wind  and  heat  were 
high,  Lucy  was  awakened  from  a  doze.  Creech  was  stand 
ing  near  her.  When  he  turned  his  long  gaze  away  from 
the  canon  he  was  smiling.  It  was  a  smile  at  once  trium 
phant  and  sad. 

"Joel's  comin'  with  the  hosses!" 

Lucy  jumped  up,  trembling  and  agitated.  "Oh!  .  .  . 
Where?  Where?" 

Creech  pointed  carefully  with  bent  hand,  like  an  Indian, 
and  Lucy  either  could  not  get  the  direction  or  see  far 
enough. 

"Right  down  along  the  base  of  thet  red  wall.  A  line 
of  hosses.  Jest  like  a  few  crawlin'  ants!  .  .  .  An'  now 
they're  creepin'  out  of  sight." 

"Oh,  I  can't  see  them!"  cried  Lucy.     "Are  you  sure?" 

"Positive  an'  sartin,"  he  replied.  "Joel's  comin'. 
He'll  be  up  hyar  before  long.  I  reckon  we'd  jest  as  well 
let  him  come.  Fer  there's  water  an'  grass  hyar.  An' 
down  below  grass  is  scarce." 

It  seemed  an  age  to  Lucy,  waiting  there,  until  she  did 
see  horses  zigzagging  the  ridges  below.  They  disappeared, 
and  then  it  was  another  age  before  they  reappeared  close 
under  the  bulge  of  wall.  She  thrilled  at  sight  of  Sage 
King  and  Sarchedon.  She  got  only  a  glimpse  of  them. 
They  must  pass  round  under  her  to  climb  a  split  in  the 
wall,  and  up  a  long  draw  that  reached  level  ground  back 
in  the  forest.  But  they  were  near,  and  Lucy  tried  to 

269 


WILDFIRE 

wait.  Creech  showed  eagerness  at  first,  and  then  went 
on  with  his  camp-fire  duties.  While  in  camp  he  always 
cooked  a  midday  meal. 

Lucy  saw  the  horses  first.  She  screamed  out.  Creech 
jumped  up  in  alarm. 

Joel  Creech,  mounted  on  Sage  King,  and  leading  Sarche- 
don,  was  coming  at  a  gallop.  The  other  horses  were  fol 
lowing. 

"What's  his  hurry?"  demanded  Lucy.  "After  climb 
ing  out  of  that  canon  Joel  ought  not  to  push  the  horses." 

"He'll  git  it  from  me  if  there's  no  reason,"  growled 
Creech.  "Them  hosses  is  wet." 

"Look  at  Sarch!    He's  wild.     He  always  hated  Joel." 

"Wai,  Lucy,  I  reckon  I  ain't  likin'  this  hyar.  Look 
at  Joel!"  muttered  Creech,  and  he  strode  out  to  meet 
his  son. 

Lucy  ran  out,  too,  and  beyond  him.  She  saw  only 
Sage  King.  He  saw  her,  recognized  her,  and  whistled 
even  while  Joel  was  pulling  him  in.  For  once  the  King 
showed  he  was  glad  to  see  Lucy.  He  had  been  having 
rough  treatment.  But  he  was  not  winded — only  hot  and 
wet.  She  assured  herself  of  that,  then  ran  to  quiet  the 
plunging  Sarch.  He  came  down  at  once,  and  pushed  his 
big  nose  almost  into  her  face.  She  hugged  his  great,  hot 
neck.  He  was  quivering  all  over.  Lucy  heard  the  other 
horses  pounding  up;  she  recognized  Two  Face's  high 
whinny,  like  a  squeal;  and  in  her  delight  she  was  about 
to  run  to  them  when  Creech's  harsh  voice  arrested  her. 
And  sight  of  Joel's  face  suddenly  made  her  weak. 

"  WlMkt  'd  you  aay?"  demanded  Creech. 

"I'4  a  jood  reason  to  run  the  hosses  up-hill — thet's 
\piiat!"  snapped  Joel.  He  was  frothing  at  the  mouth. 

"Out  with  it!" 

"Cordts  an'  Hutch!" 

"What?"  roared  Creech,  grasping  the  pale  Joel  and 
shaking  him. 

"Cordte  an'  Hutch  rode  in  behind  me  down  at  thet 

270 


WILDFIRE 

cross  canon.  They  seen  me.  An'  they're  after  me 
hard!" 

Creech  gave  close  and  keen  scrutiny  to  the  strange  face 
of  his  son.  Then  he  wheeled  away. 

"Help  me  pack.  An*  you,  too,  Lucy.  Weve  got  to 
rustle  out  of  hyar." 

Lucy  fought  a  sick  faintness  that  threatened  to  make 
her  useless.  But  she  tried  to  help,  and  presently  action 
made  her  stronger. 

The  Creeches  made  short  work  of  that  breaking  of 
camp.  But  when  it  came  to  getting  the  horses  there 
appeared  danger  of  delay.  Sarchedon  had  led  Dusty 
Ben  and  Two  Face  off  in  the  grass.  When  Joel  went  for 
them  they  galloped  away  toward  the  woods.  Joel  ran 
back. 

"Son,  you're  a  smart  hossman!"  exclaimed  Creech,  in 
disgust. 

"Shall  I  git  on  the  King  an'  ketch  them?" 

"No.  Hold  the  King."  Creech  went  out  after  Plume, 
but  the  excited  and  wary  horse  eluded  him.  Then  Creech 
gave  up,  caught  his  own  mustangs,  and  hurried  into  camp. 

"Lucy,  if  Cordts  gits  after  Sarch  an'  the  others  it'll 
be  as  well  fer  us,"  he  said. 

Soon  they  were  riding  into  the  forest,  Creech  leading, 
Lucy  in  the  center,  and  Joel  coming  behind  on  the  King. 
Two  unsaddled  mustangs  carrying  the  packs  were  driven 
in  front.  Creech  limited  the  gait  to  the  best  that  the 
pack-horses  could  do.  They  made  fast  time.  The  level 
forest  floor,  hard  and  springy,  afforded  the  best  kind  of 
going. 

A  cold  dread  had  once  more  clutched  Lucy's  heart. 
What  would  be  the  end  of  this  flight?  The  way  Creech 
looked  back  increased  her  dread.  How  horrible  it  would 
be  if  Cordts  accomplished  what  he  had  always  threat 
ened — to  run  off  with  both  her  and  the  King!  Lucy  lost 
her  confidence  in  Creech.  She  did  not  glance  again  at 
JoeL  Once  had  been  enough.  She  rode  on  with  heavy 

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WILDFIRE 

heart.  Anxiety  and  dread  and  conjecture  and  a  gradual 
sinking  of  spirit  weighed  her  down.  Yet  she  never  had 
a  clearer  perception  of  outside  things.  The  forest  loomed 
thicker  and  darker.  The  sky  was  seen  only  through  a 
green,  crisscross  of  foliage  waving  in  the  roaring  gale. 
This  strong  wind  was  like  a  blast  in  Lucy's  face,  and  its 
keen  dryness  cracked  her  lips. 

When  they  rode  out  of  the  forest,  down  a  gentle  slope 
of  wind-swept  grass,  to  an  opening  into  a  canon  Lucy  was 
surprised  to  recognize  the  place.  How  quickly  the  ride 
through  the  forest  had  been  made! 

Creech  dismounted.  "Git  off,  Lucy.  You,  Joel, 
hurry  an'  hand  me  the  little  pack.  .  .  .  Now  I'll  take  Lucy 
an'  the  King  down  in  hyar.  You  go  thet  way  with 
the  hosses  an'  make  as  if  you  was  hidin'  your  trail,  but 
don't.  Do  you  savvy?" 

Joel  shook  his  head.  He  looked  sullen,  somber,  strange. 
His  father  repeated  what  he  had  said. 

"You're  wantin'  Cordts  to  split  on  the  trail?"  asked 
Joel. 

"Sure.     He'll    ketch  up    with  you    sometime.    But 
you  needn't  be  af eared  if  he  does." 
'I  ain't  a-goin'  to  do  thet." 

'Why  not?"  Creech  demanded,  slowly,  with  a  rising 
voice. 

'I'm  a-goin'  with  you.  What  d'ye  mean,  Dad,  by 
th  s  move?  You'll  be  headin'  back  fer  the  Ford.  An' 
we'd  git  safer  if  we  go  the  other  way." 

Creech  evidently  controlled  his  temper  by  an  effort. 
"I'm  takin'  Lucy  an'  the  King  back  to  Bostil." 

Joel  echoed  those  words,  slowly  divining  them.  "Tak 
in'  them  both!  The  girl.  .  .  .  An'  givin'  up  the  King!" 

"Yes,  both  of  them.  I've  changed  my  mind,  Joel. 
Now — you — " 

But  Creech  never  finished  what  he  meant  to  say.  Joel 
Creech  was  suddenly  seized  by  a  horrible  madness.  It 
was  then,  perhaps,  that  the  final  thread  which  linked  his 

272 


WILDFIRE 

mind  to  rationality  stretched  and  snapped.  His  face 
turned  green.  His  strange  eyes  protruded.  His  jaw 
worked.  He  frothed  at  the  mouth.  He  leaped,  appar 
ently  to  get  near  his  father,  but  he  missed  his  direction. 
Then,  as  if  sight  had  come  back,  he  wheeled  and  made 
strange  gestures,  all  the  while  cursing  incoherently.  The 
father's  shocked  face  began  to  show  disgust.  Then  part 
of  Joel's  ranting  became  intelligible. 

"Shut  up!"  suddenly  roared  Creech. 

"No,  I  won't!"  shrieked  Joel,  wagging  his  head  in  spent 
passion.  "An*  you.  ain't  a-goin'  to  take  thet  girl  home. 
...  I'll  take  her  with  me.  .  .  .  An'  you  take  the  hosses 
home!" 

"You're  crazy!"  hoarsely  shouted  Creech,  his  face 
going  black.  "They  allus  said  so.  But  I  never  believed 
thet." 

"An'  if  I'm  crazy,  thet  girl  made  me.  .  .  .  You  know 
what  I'm  a-goin'  to  do?  ...  I'll  strip  her  naked — an' 
I'll—" 

Lucy  saw  old  Creech  lunge  and  strike.  She  heard  the 
sodden  blow.  Joel  went  down.  But  he  scrambled  up 
with  his  eyes  and  mouth  resembling  those  of  a  mad  hound 
Lucy  once  had  seen.  The  fact  that  he  reached  twice 
for  his  gun  and  could  not  find  it  proved  the  breaking 
connection  of  nerve  and  sense. 

Creech  jumped  and  grappled  with  Joel.  There  was 
a  wrestling,  strained  struggle.  Creech's  hair  stood  up 
and  his  face  had  a  kind  of  sick  fury,  and  he  continued  to 
curse  and  command.  They  fought  for  the  possession 
of  the  gun.  But  Joel  seemed  to  have  superhuman 
strength.  His  hold  on  the  gun  could  not  be  broken. 
Moreover,  he  kept  straining  to  point  the  gun  at  his  father. 
Lucy  screamed.  Creech  yelled  hoarsely.  But  the  boy 
was  beyond  reason  or  help,  and  he  was  beyond  over 
powering!  Lucy  saw  him  bend  his  arm  in  spite  of  the 
desperate  hold  upon  it  and  fire  the  gun.  Creech's  hoarse 
entreaties  ceased  as  his  hold  on  Joel  broke.  He  stag- 

273 


WILDFIRE 

gered.  His  arms  went  up  with  a  tragic,  terrible  gesture. 
He  fell.  Joel  stood  over  him,  shaking  and  livid,  but  he 
showed  only  the  vaguest  realization  of  the  deed.  His 
actions  were  instinctive.  He  was  the  animal  that  had 
clawed  himself  free.  Further  proof  of  his  aberration 
stood  out  in  the  action  of  sheathing  his  gun;  he  made  the 
motion  to  do  so,  but  he  only  dropped  it  in  the  grass. 

Sight  of  that  dropped  gun  broke  Lucy's  spell  of  horror, 
which  had  kept  her  silent  but  for  one  scream.  Suddenly 
her  blood  leaped  like  fire  in  her  veins.  She  measured  the 
distance  to  Sage  King.  Joel  was  turning.  Then  Lucy 
darted  at  the  King,  reached  him,  and,  leaping,  was  half 
up  on  him  when  he  snorted  and  jumped,  not  breaking  her 
hold,  but  keeping  her  from  getting  up.  Then  iron  hands 
clutched  her  and  threw  her,  like  an  empty  sack,  to  the 
grass. 

Joel  Creech  did  not  say  a  word.  His  distorted  face  had 
the  deriding  scorn  of  a  superior  being.  Lucy  lay  flat  on 
her  back,  watching  him.  Her  mind  worked  swiftly.  She 
would  have  to  fight  for  her  body  and  her  life.  Her  terror 
had  fled  with  her  horror.  She  was  not  now  afraid  of  this 
demented  boy.  She  meant  to  fight,  calculating  like  a 
cunning  Indian,  wild  as  a  trapped  wildcat. 

Lucy  lay  perfectly  still,  for  she  knew  she  had  been 
thrown  near  the  spot  where  the  gun  lay.  If  she  got  her 
hands  on  that  gun  she  would  kill  Joel.  It  would  be  the 
action  of  an  instant.  She  watched  Joel  while  he  watched 
her.  And  she  saw  that  he  had  his  foot  on  the  rope  round 
Sage  King's  neck.  The  King  never  liked  a  rope.  He  was 
nervous.  He  tossed  his  head  to  get  rid  of  it.  Creech, 
watching  Lucy  all  the  while,  reached  for  the  rope,  pulled 
the  King  closer  and  closer,  and  untied  the  knot.  The  King 
stood  then,  bridle  down  and  quiet.  Instead  of  a  saddle 
he  wore  a  blanket  strapped  round  him. 

It  seemed  that  Lucy  located  the  gun  without  turning 
her  eyes  away  from  Joel's.  She  gathered  all  her  force — 
rolled  over  swiftly — again — got  her  hands  on  the  gun  just 

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WILDFIRE 

as  Creech  leaped  like  a  panther  upon  her.  His  weight 
crushed  her  flat — his  strength  made  her  hand-hold  like 
that  of  a  child.  He  threw  the  gun  aside.  Lucy  lay  face 
down,  unable  to  move  her  body  while  he  stood  over  her. 
Then  he  struck  her,  not  a  stunning  blow,  but  just  the 
hard  rap  a  cruel  rider  gives  to  a  horse  that  wants  its  own 
way.  Under  that  blow  Lucy's  spirit  rose  to  a  height  of 
terrible  passion.  Still  she  did  not  lose  her  cunning;  the 
blow  increased  it.  That  blow  showed  Joel  to  be  crazy. 
She  might  outwit  a  crazy  man,  where  a  man  merely 
wicked  might  master  her. 

Creech  tried  to  turn  her.  Lucy  resisted.  And  she  was 
strong.  Resistance  infuriated  Creech.  He  cuffed  her 
sharply.  This  action  only  made  him  worse.  Then  with 
hands  like  steel  claws  he  tore  away  her  blouse. 

The  shock  of  his  hands  on  her  bare  flesh  momentarily 
weakened  Lucy,  and  Creech  dragged  at  her  until  she  lay 
seemingly  helpless  before  him. 

And  Lucy  saw  that  at  the  sight  of  her  like  this  some 
thing  had  come  between  Joel  Creech's  mad  motives  and 
their  execution.  Once  he  had  loved  her — desired  her. 
He  looked  vague.  He  stroked  her  shoulder.  His  strange 
eyes  softened,  then  blazed  with  a  different  light.  Lucy 
divined  that  she  was  lost  unless  she  could  recall  his  insane 
fury.  She  must  begin  that  terrible  fight  in  which  now 
the  best  she  could  hope  for  was  to  make  him  kill  her 
quickly. 

Swift  and  vicious  as  a  cat  she  fastened  her  teeth  in 
his  arm.  She  bit  deep  and  held  on.  Creech  howled  like 
a  dog.  He  beat  her.  He  jerked  and  wrestled.  Then  he 
lifted  her,  and  the  swing  of  her  body  tore  the  flesh  loose 
from  his  arm  and  broke  her  hold.  Lucy  half  'rose, 
crawled,  plunged  for  the  gun.  She  got  it,  too,  only  to 
have  Creech  kick  it  out  of  her  hand.  The  pain  of  that 
brutal  kick  was  severe,  but  when  he  cut  her  across  the 
bare  back  with  the  rope  she  shrieked  out.  Supple  and 
quick,  she  leaped  up  and  ran.  In  vain!  With  a  few 

19  275 


WILDFIRE 

bounds  he  had  her  again,  tripped  her  up.  Lucy  fell  over 
the  dead  body  of  the  father.  Yet  even  that  did  not  shake 
her  desperate  nerve.  All  the  ferocity  of  a  desert-bred 
savage  culminated  in  her,  fighting  for  death. 

Creech  leaned  down,  swinging  the  coiled  rope.  He 
meant  to  do  more  than  lash  her  with  it.  Lucy's  hands 
flashed  up,  closed  tight  in  his  long  hair.  Then  with  a 
bellow  he  jerked  up  and  lifted  her  sheer  off  the  ground. 
There  was  an  instant  in  which  Lucy  felt  herself  swung 
and  torn;  she  saw  everything  as  a  whirling  blur;  she 
felt  an  agony  in  her  wrists  at  which  Creech  was  clawing. 
When  he  broke  her  hold  there  were  handfuls  of  hair  in 
Lucy's  fists. 

She  fell  again  and  had  not  the  strength  to  rise.  But 
Creech  was  raging,  and  little  of  his  broken  speech  was  in 
telligible.  He  knelt  with  a  sharp  knee  pressing  her  down. 
He  cut  the  rope.  Nimbly,  like  a  rider  in  moments  of 
needful  swiftness,  he  noosed  one  end  of  the  rope  round 
her  ankle,  then  the  end  of  the  other  piece  round  her  wrist. 
He  might  have  been  tying  up  an  unbroken  mustang. 
Rising,  he  retained  hold  on  both  ropes.  He  moved  back, 
sliding  them  through  his  hands.  Then  with  a  quick  move 
he  caught  up  Sage  King's  bridle. 

Creech  paused  a  moment,  darkly  triumphant.  A 
hideous  success  showed  in  his  strange  eyes.  A  long- 
cherished  mad  vengeance  had  reached  its  fruition.  Then 
he  led  the  horse  near  to  Lucy. 

Warily  he  reached  down.  He  did  not  know  Lucy's 
strength  was  spent.  He  feared  she  might  yet  escape. 
With  hard,  quick  grasp  he  caught  her,  lifted  her, 
threw  her  over  the  King's  back.  He  forced  her  down. 

Lucy's  resistance  was  her  only  salvation,  because  it 
kept  him  on  the  track  of  his  old  threat.  She  resisted  all 
she  could.  He  pulled  her  arms  down  round  the  King's 
neck  and  tied  them  close.  Then  he  pulled  hard  on 
the  rope  on  her  ankle  and  tied  that  to  her  other  ankle. 

Lucy  realized  that  she  was  bound  fast.  Creech  had 

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WILDFIRE 

made  good  most  of  his  threat.  And  now  in  her  mind  the 
hope  of  the  death  she  had  sought  changed  to  the  hope  of 
life  that  was  possible.  Whatever  power  she  had  ever  had 
over  the  King  was  in  her  voice.  If  only  Creech  would 
slip  the  bridle  or  cut  the  reins — if  only  Sage  King  could 
be  free  to  run! 

Lucy  could  turn  her  face  far  enough  to  see  Creech. 
Like  a  fiend  he  was  reveling  in  his  work.  Suddenly  he 
picked  up  the  gun. 

"Look  a-hyar!"  he  called,  hoarsely. 

With  eyes  on  her,  grinning  horribly,  he  walked  a  few 
paces  to  where  the  long  grass  had  not  been  trampled  or 
pressed  down.  The  wind,  whipping  up  out  of  the  canon, 
was  still  blowing  hard.  Creech  put  the  gun  down  in  the 
grass  and  fired. 

Sage  King  plunged.  But  he  was  not  gun-shy.  He 
steadied  down  with  a  pounding  of  heavy  hoofs.  Then 
Lucy  could  see  again.  A  thin  streak  of  yellow  smoke 
rose — a  little  snaky  flame — a  slight  crackling  hiss!  Then 
as  the  wind  caught  the  blaze  there  came  a  rushing,  low 
roar.  Fire,  like  magic,  raced  and  spread  before  the  wind 
toward  the  forest. 

Lucy  had  forgotten  that  Creech  had  meant  to  drive 
her  into  fire.  The  sudden  horror  of  it  almost  caused  col 
lapse.  Commotion  within — cold  and  quake  and  nausea 
and  agony — deadened  her  hearing  and  darkened  her  sight. 
But  Creech's  hard  hands  quickened  her.  She  could  see 
him  then,  though  not  clearly.  His  face  seemed  inhuman, 
misshapen,  gray.  His  hands  pulled  at  her  arms — a  last 
precaution  to  see  that  she  was  tightly  bound.  Then  with 
the  deft  fingers  of  a  rider  he  slipped  Sage  King's  bridle. 

Lucy  could  not  trust  her  sight.  What  made  the  King 
stand  so  still?  His  ears  went  up — stiff — pointed! 

Creech  stepped  back  and  laid  a  violent  hand  on  Lucy's 
garments.  She  bent — twisted  her  neck  to  watch  him. 
But  her  sight  grew  no  clearer.  Still  she  saw  he  meant  to 
strip  her  naked.  He  braced  himself  for  a  strong,  ripping 

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WILDFIRE 

pull.  His  yellow  teeth  showed  deep  in  his  lip.  His  con 
trasting  eyes  were  alight  with  insane  joy. 

But  he  never  pulled.  Something  attracted  his  atten 
tion.  He  looked.  He  saw  something.  The  beast  in 
him  became  human — the  madness  changed  to  rationality 
— the  devil  to  a  craven!  His  ashen  lips  uttered  a  low, 
terrible  cry. 

Lucy  felt  the  King  trembling  in  every  muscle.  She 
knew  that  was  fright.  She  expected  his  loud  snort,  and 
was  prepared  for  it  when  it  rang  out.  In  a  second  he 
would  bolt.  She  knew  that.  She  thrilled.  She  tried 
to  call  to  him,  but  her  lips  were  weak.  Creech  seemed 
paralyzed.  The  King  shifted  his  position,  and  Lucy's 
last  glimpse  of  Creech  was  one  she  would  never  forget. 
It  was  as  if  Creech  faced  burning  hell! 

Then  the  King  whistled  and  reared.  Lucy  heard  swift, 
dull,  throbbing  beats.  Beats  of  a  fast  horse's  hoofs  on 
the  run!  She  felt  a  surging  thrill  of  joy.  She  could  not 
think.  All  of  her  blood  and  bone  and  muscle  seemed 
to  throb.  Suddenly  the  air  split  to  a  high-pitched,  wild, 
whistling  blast.  It  pierced  to  Lucy's  mind.  She  knew 
that  whistle. 

"Wildfire!"  she  screamed,  with  bursting  heart. 

The  King  gave  a  mighty  convulsive  bound  of  terror. 
He,  too,  knew  that  whistle.  And  in  that  one  great  bound 
he  launched  out  into  a  run.  Straight  across  the  line  of 
burning  grass!  Lucy  felt  the  sting  of  flame.  Smoke 
blinded  and  choked  her.  Then  clear,  dry,  keen  wind 
sung  in  her  ears  and  whipped  her  hair.  The  light  about 
her  darkened.  The  King  had  headed  into  the  pines. 
The  heavy  roar  of  the  gale  overhead  struck  Lucy  with 
new  and  torturing  dread.  Sage  King  once  in  his  life  was 
running  away,  bridleless,  and  behind  him  there  was  fire 
on  the  wings  of  the  wind. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

FOR  the  first  time  in  his  experience  Bostil  found 
that  horse-trading  palled  upon  him.  This  trip  to 
Durango  was  a  failure.  Something  was  wrong.  There 
was  a  voice  constantly  calling  into  his  inner  ear — a  voice 
to  which  he  refused  to  listen.  And  during  the  five  days 
of  the  return  trip  the  strange  mood  grew  upon  him. 

The  last  day  he  and  his  xiders  covered  over  fifty  miles 
and  reached  the  Ford  late  at  night.  No  one  expected 
them,  and  only  the  men  on  duty  at  the  corrals  knew  of 
the  return.  Bostil,  much  relieved  to  get  home,  went  to 
bed  and  at  once  fell  asleep. 

He  awakened  at  a  late  hour  for  him.  When  he  dressed 
and  went  out  to  the  kitchen  he  found  that  his  sister  had 
learned  of  his  return  and  had  breakfast  waiting. 

"Where's  the  girl?"  asked  Bostil. 

"Not  up  yet,"  replied  Aunt  Jane. 

"What!" 

"Lucy  and  I  had  a  tiff  last  night  and  she  went  to  her 
room  in  a  temper." 

"Nothin'  new  about  thet." 

"Holley  and  I  have  had  our  troubles  holding  her  in. 
Don't  you  forget  that." 

Bostil  laughed.     "Wai,  call  her  an'  tdl  her  I'm  home." 

Aunt  Jane  did  as  she  was  bidden.  Bostil  finished  his 
breakfast.  But  Lucy  did  not  come. 

Bostil  began  to  feel  something  strange,  and,  going  to 
Lucy's  door,  he  knocked.  There  was  no  reply.  Bostil 
pushed  open  the  door.  Lucy  was  not  in  evidence,  and 
her  room  was  not  as  tidy  as  usual.  He  saw  her  white 

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WILDFIRE 

dress  thrown  upon  the  bed  she  had  not  slept  in.  Bostil 
gazed  around  with  a  queer  contraction  of  the  heart. 
That  sense  of  something  amiss  grew  stronger.  Then  he 
saw  a  chair  before  the  open  window.  That  window  was 
rather  high,  and  Lucy  had  placed  a  chair  before  it  so  that 
she  could  look  out  or  get  out.  Bostil  stretched  his  neck, 
looked  out,  and  in  the  red  earth  beneath  the  window  he 
saw  fresh  tracks  of  Lucy's  boots.  Then  he  roared  for 
Jane. 

She  came  running,  and  between  BostiTs  furious  ques 
tions  and  her  own  excited  answers  there  was  nothing 
arrived  at.  But  presently  she  spied  the  white  dress,  and 
then  she  ran  to  Lucy's  closet.  From  there  she  turned 
a  white  face  to  Bostil. 

"She  put  on  her  riding-clothes!"  gasped  Aunt  Jane. 

"Supposin'  she  did!    Where  is  she?"  demanded  Bostil. 

"  She's  run  off  with  Slone!" 

Bostil  could  not  have  been  shocked  or  hurt  any  more 
acutely  by  a  knife-thrust.  He  glared  at  his  sister. 

"A-huh!    So  thet's  the  way  you  watch  her!" 

"Watch  her?  It  wasn't  possible.  She's — well,  she's 
as  smart  as  you  are.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  knew  she'd  do  it!  She  was 
wild  in  love  with  him!" 

Bostil  strode  out  of  the  room  and  the  house.  He  went 
through  the  grove  and  directly  up  the  path  to  Slone's 
cabin.  It  was  empty,  just  as  Bostil  expected  to  find  it. 
The  bars  of  the  corral  were  down.  Both  Slone's  horses 
were  gone.  Presently  Bostil  saw  the  black  horse  Nagger 
down  in  Brackton's  pasture. 

There  were  riders  in  front  of  Brackton's.  All  spoke 
at  once  to  Bostil,  and  he  only  yelled  for  Brackton.  The 
old  man  came  hurriedly  out,  alarmed. 

"Where's  this  Slone?"  demanded  Bostil. 

"Slone!"  ejaculated  Brackton.  "I'm  blessed  if  I 
know.  Ain't  he  home?" 

"No.     An'  he's  left  his  black  hoss  in  your  field." 

"Wai,  by  golly,  thet's  news  to  me.  .  .  .  Bostil,  there's 

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WILDFIRE 

been  strange  doin's  lately."  Brackton  seemed  at  a  loss 
for  words.  "Mebbe  Slone  got  out  because  of  somethin' 
thet  come  off  last  night.  .  . .  Now,  Joel  Creech  an' — an' — " 

Bostil  waited  to  hear  no  more.  What  did  he  care 
about  the  idiot  Creech?  He  strode  down  the  lane  to  the 
corrals.  Farlane,  Van,  and  other  riders  were  there, 
leisurely  as  usual.  Then  Holley  appeared,  coming  out  of 
the  barn.  He,  too,  was  easy,  cool,  natural,  lazy.  None  of 
these  riders  knew  what  was  amiss.  But  instantly  a  change 
passed  over  them.  It  came  because  Bostil  pulled  a  gun. 

"  Holley,  I've  a  mind  to  bore  you!" 

The  old  hawk-eyed  rider  did  not  flinch  or  turn  a  shade 
off  color.  "What  fer?"  he  queried.  But  his  customary 
drawl  was  wanting. 

"I  left  you  to  watch  Lucy.  .  .  .  An'  she's  gone!" 

Holley  showed  genuine  surprise  and  distress.  The 
other  riders  echoed  Bostil's  last  word.  Bostil  lowered 
the  gun. 

"I  reckon  what  saves  you  is  you're  the  only  tracker 
thet  'd  have  a  show  to  find  this  cussed  Slone." 

Holley  now  showed  no  sign  of  surprise,  but  the  other 
riders  were  astounded. 

"Lucy's  run  off  with  Slone,"  added  Bostil. 

"Wai,  if  she's  gone,  an'  if  he's  gone,  it's  a  cinch,"  re 
plied  Holley,  throwing  up  his  hands.  "Boss,  she  double- 
crossed  me  same  as  you!  .  .  .  She  promised  faithful  to  stay 
in  the  house." 

"  Promises  nothin' !"  roared  Bostil.  "  She's  in  love  with 
this  wild-hoss  wrangler!  She  met  him  last  night!" 

"I  couldn't  help  thet,"  retorted  Holley.  "An'  I 
trusted  the  girl." 

Bostil  tossed  his  hands.  He  struggled  with  his  rage. 
He  had  no  fear  that  Lucy  would  not  soon  be  found. 
But  the  opposition  to  his  will  made  him  furious. 

Van  left  the  group  of  riders  and  came  close  to  Bostil. 
"It  ain't  an  hour  back  thet  I  seen  Slone  ride  off  alone  on 
his  red  hoss." 

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WILDFIRE 

"What  of  thet?"  demanded  Bostil.  "Sure  she  was 
waitin'  somewheres.  They'd  have  too  much  sense  to 
go  together.  .  .  .  Saddle  up,  you  boys,  an'  we'll — " 

"Say,  Bostil,  I  happen  to  know  Slone  didn't  see  Lucy 
last  night,"  interrupted  Holley. 

""A-huh!    Wai,  you'd  better  talk  out." 

"I  trusted  Lucy,"  said  Holley.  "But  all  the  same, 
knowin'  she  was  in  love,  I  jest  wanted  to  see  if  any  girl 
in  love  could  keep  her  word.  ...  So  about  dark  I  went 
down  the  grove  an'  watched  fer  Slone.  Pretty  soon  I 
seen  him.  He  sneaked  along  the  upper  end  an'  I  follered. 
He  went  to  thet  bench  up  by  the  biggest  cottonwood. 
An'  he  waited  a  long  time.  But  Lucy  didn't  come.  He 
must  have  waited  till  midnight.  Then  he  left.  I  watched 
him  go  back — seen  him  go  up  to  his  cabin." 

"Wai,  if  she  didn't  meet  him,  where  was  she?  She 
wasn't  in  her  room." 

Bostil  gazed  at  Holley  and  the  other  riders,  then  back 
to  Holley.  What  was  the  matter  with  this  old  rider? 
Bostil  had  never  seen  Holley  seem  so  strange.  The  whole 
affair  began  to  loom  strangely,  darkly.  Some  portent 
quickened  Bostil's  lumbering  pulse.  It  seemed  that 
Holley's  mind  must  have  found  an  obstacle  to  thought. 
Suddenly  the  old  rider's  face  changed — the  bronze  was 
blotted  out — a  grayness  came,  and  then  a  dead  white. 

"Bostil,  mebbe  you  'ain't  been  told  yet  thet — thet 
Creech  rode  in  yesterday.  .  .  .  He  lost  all  his  racers!  He 
had  to  shoot  both  Peg  an'  Roan!" 

Bostil's  thought  suffered  a  sudden,  blank  halt.  Then, 
with  realization,  came  the  shock  for  which  he  had  long 
been  prepared. 

"A-huh!     Is  thet  so?  ...  Wai,  an'  what  did  he  say?" 

Holley  laughed  a  grim,  significant  laugh  that  curdled 
Bostil's  blood.  "Creech  said  a  lot!  But  let  thet  go 
now.  .  .  .  Come  with  me." 

Holley  started  with  rapid  strides  down  the  lane.  Bostil 
followed.  And  he  heard  the  riders  coming  behind.  A 

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WILDFIRE 

dark  and  gloomy  thought  settled  upon  Bostil.  He  could 
not  check  that,  but  he  held  back  impatience  and  passion. 

Holley  went  straight  to  Lucy's  window.  He  got  down 
on  his  knees  to  scrutinize  the  tracks. 

"Made  more 'n  twelve  hours  ago,"  he  said,  swiftly. 
"She  had  on  her  boots,  but  no  spurs.  .  .  .  Now  let's  see 
where  she  went." 

Holley  began  to  trail  Lucy's  progress  through  the 
grove,  silently  pointing  now  and  then  to  a  track.  He 
went  swifter,  till  Bostil  had  to  hurry.  The  other  men 
came  whispering  after  them. 

Holley  was  as  keen  as  a  hound  on  scent. 

"She  stopped  there,"  he  said,  "mebbe  to  listen.  Looks 
like  she  wanted  to  cross  the  lane,  but  she  didn't;  here 
she  got  to  goin'  faster." 

Holley  reached  an  intersecting  path  and  suddenly 
halted  stock-still,  pointing  at  a  big  track  in  the  dust. 

"My  God! .  .  .  Bostil,  look  at  thet!" 

One  riving  pang  tore  through  Bostil — and  then  he 
was  suddenly  his  old  self,  facing  the  truth  of  danger  to 
one  he  loved.  He  saw  beside  the  big  track  a  faint  im 
print  of  Lucy's  small  foot.  That  was  the  last  sign  of 
her  progress  and  it  told  a  story. 

"Bostil,  thet  ain't  Slone's  track,"  said  Holley,  ringingly. 

"Sure  it  ain't.  Thet's  the  track  of  a  big  man,"  replied 
Bostil. 

The  other  riders,  circling  round  with  bent  heads,  all 
said  one  way  or  another  that  Slone  could  not  have  made 
the  trail. 

"An*  whoever  he  was  grabbed  Lucy  up — made  off  with 
her?"  asked  Bostil. 

" Plain  as  if  we  seen  it  done!"  exclaimed  Holley.  There 
was  fire  in  the  clear,  hawk  eyes. 

"Cordts!"  cried  Bostil,  hoarsely. 

"Mebbe — mebbe.  But  thet  ain't  my  idee.  .  .  .  Come 
on." 

Holley  went  so  fast  he  almost  ran,  and  he  got  ahead  of 

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WILDFIRE 

Bostil.  Finally  several  hundred  yards  out  in  the  sage 
he  halted,  and  again  dropped  to  his  knees.  Bostil  and 
the  riders  hurried  on. 

"Keep  back;  don't  stamp  round  so  close,"  ordered 
Holley.  Then  like  a  man  searching  for  lost  gold  in  sand 
and  grass  he  searched  the  ground.  To  Bostil  it  seemed 
a  long  time  before  he  got  through.  When  he  arose  there 
was  a  dark  and  deadly  certainty  in  his  face,  by  which 
Bostil  knew  the  worst  had  befallen  Lucy. 

"Four  mustangs  an*  two  men  last  night,"  said  Holley, 
rapidly.  "Here's  where  Lucy  was  set  down  on  her  feet. 
Here's  where  she  mounted.  .  .  .  An'  here's  the  tracks  of  a 
third  man — tracks  made  this  mornin'." 

Bostil  straightened  up  and  faced  Holley  as  if  ready  to 
take  a  death-blow.  "I'm  reckonin'  them  last  is  Slone's 
tracks." 

"Yes,  I  know  them,"  replied  Holley. 

"An' — them — other  tracks?    Who  made  them?" 

"  Creech  an'  his  son!" 

Bostil  felt  swept  away  by  a  dark,  whirling  flame.  And 
when  it  passed  he  lay  in  his  barn,  in  the  shade  of  the  loft, 
prostrate  on  the  fragrant  hay.  His  strength  with  his 
passion  was  spent.  A  dull  ache  remained.  The  fight 
was  gone  from  him.  His  spirit  was  broken.  And  he 
looked  down  into  that  dark  abyss  which  was  his  own 
soul. 

By  and  by  the  riders  came  for  him,  got  him  up,  and  led 
him  out.  He  shook  them  off  and  stood  breathing  slowly. 
The  air  felt  refreshing;  it  cooled  his  hot,  tired  brain.  It 
did  not  surprise  him  to  see  Joel  Creech  there,  cringing 
behind  Holley. 

Bostil  lifted  a  hand  for  some  one  to  speak.  And  Hol 
ley  came  a  step  forward.  His  face  was  haggard,  but  its 
white  tenseness  was  gone.  He  seemed  as  if  he  were  re 
luctant  to  speak,  to  inflict  more  pain. 

"Bostil,"  he  began,  huskily,  "you're  to  send  the  King 

284 


WILDFIRE 

— an'  Sarch — an'  Ben  an'  Two  Face  an'  Plume  to  ransom 
Lucy  ! ...  If  you  won't — then  Creech  11  sell  her  to  Cordts !" 

What  a  strange  look  came  into  the  faces  of  the  riders! 
Did  they  think  he  cared  more  for  horseflesh  than  for  his 
own  flesh  and  blood? 

"Send  the  King — an  all  he  wants.  .  .  .  An'  send  word 
fer  Creech  to  come  back  to  the  Ford. . . .  Tell  him  I  said — 
my  sin  found  me  out!" 

Bostil  watched  Joel  Creech  ride  the  King  out  upon  the 
slope,  driving  the  others  ahead.  Sage  King  wanted  to 
run.  Sarchedon  was  wild  and  unruly.  They  passed  out 
of  sight.  Then  Bostil  turned  to  his  silent  riders. 

"Boys,  seem'  the  King  go  thet  way  wasn't  nothin'.  .  .  . 
But  what  crucifies  me  is — will  thet  fetch  her  back?" 

"God  only  knows!"  replied  Holley.  "Mebbe  not— I 
reckon  not!  .  .  .  But,  Bostil,  you  forget  Slone  is  out  there 
on  Lucy's  trail.  Out  there  ahead  of  Joel!  Slone  he's 
a  wild-hoss  hunter — the  keenest  I  ever  seen.  Do  you 
think  Creech  can  shake  him  on  a  trail?  He'll  kill  Creech, 
an'  he'll  lay  fer  Joel  goin'  back — an'  he'll  kill  him.  .  .  . 
An'  I'll  bet  my  all  he'll  ride  in  here  with  Lucy  an'  the 
King!" 

"Holley,  you  ain't  figurin'  on  thet  red  hoss  of  Slone's 
ridin'  down  the  King?" 

Holley  laughed  as  if  Bostil's  query  was  the  strangest 
thing  of  all  that  poignant  day.  "Naw.  Slone  '11  lay  fer 
Joel  an'  rope  him  like  he  roped  Dick  Sears." 

"Holley,  I  reckon  you  see — clearer  'nme,"  said  Bostil, 
plaintively.  "'Pears  as  if  I  never  had  a  hard  knock 
before.  Fer  my  nerve's  broke.  I  can't  hope.  .  .  .  Lucy's 
gone!  .  .  .  Ain't  there  anythin'  to  do  but  wait?" 

"Thet's  all.  Jest  wait.  If  we  went  out  on  Joel's 
trail  we'd  queer  the  chance  of  Creech's  bein'  honest.  An* 
we'd  queer  Slone's  game.  I'd  hate  to  have  him  trailin' 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

ON  the  day  that  old  Creech  repudiated  his  son,  Slone 
with  immeasurable  relief  left  Brackton's  without  even 
a  word  to  the  rejoicing  Holley,  and  plodded  up  the  path 
to  his  cabin. 

After  the  first  flush  of  elation  had  passed  he  found  a 
peculiar  mood  settling  down  upon  him.  It  was  as  if  all 
was  not  so  well  as  he  had  impulsively  conceived.  He 
began  to  ponder  over  this  strange  depression,  to  think 
back.  What  had  happened  to  dash  the  cup  from  his  lips? 
Did  he  regret  being  freed  from  guilt  in  the  simple  minds 
of  the  villagers — regret  it  because  suspicion  would  fall 
upon  Lucy's  father?  No;  he  was  sorry  for  the  girl,  but 
not  for  Bostil.  It  was  not  this  new  aspect  of  the  situa 
tion  at  the  Ford  that  oppressed  him. 

He  trailed  his  vague  feelings  back  to  a  subtle  shock  he 
had  sustained  in  a  last  look  at  Creech's  dark,  somber  face. 
It  had  been  the  face  of  a  Nemesis.  All  about  Creech 
breathed  silent,  revengeful  force.  Slone  worked  out  in 
his  plodding  thought  why  that  fact  should  oppress  him; 
and  it  was  because  in  striking  Bostil  old  Creech  must  strike 
through  BostiTs  horses  and  his  daughter. 

Slone  divined  it — divined  it  by  the  subtle,  intuitive 
power  of  his  love  for  Lucy.  He  did  not  reconsider  what 
had  been  his  supposition  before  Creech's  return — that 
Creech  would  kill  Bostil.  Death  would  be  no  revenge. 
Creech  had  it  in  him  to  steal  the  King  and  starve  him  or 
to  do  the  same  and  worse  with  Lucy.  So  Slone  imagined, 
remembering  Creech's  face. 

Before  twilight  set  in  Slone  saw  the  Creeches  riding  out 

286 


WILDFIRE 

of  the  lane  into  the  sage,  evidently  leaving  the  Ford. 
This  occasioned  Slone  great  relief,  but  only  for  a  moment. 
What  the  Creeches  appeared  to  be  doing  might  not  be 
significant.  And  he  knew  if  they  had  stayed  in  the  vil 
lage  that  he  would  have  watched  them  as  closely  as  if 
he  thought  they  were  trying  to  steal  Wildfire. 

He  got  his  evening  meal,  cared  for  his  horses,  and  just 
as  darkness  came  on  he  slipped  down  into  the  grove  for 
his  rendezvous  with  Lucy.  Always  this  made  his  heart 
beat  and  his  nerves  thrill,  but  to-night  he  was  excited. 
The  grove  seemed  full  of  moving  shadows,  all  of  which  he 
fancied  were  Lucy.  Reaching  the  big  cottonwood,  he 
tried  to  compose  himself  on  the  bench  to  wait.  But  com 
posure  seemed  unattainable.  The  night  was  still,  only 
the  crickets  and  the  soft  rustle  of  leaves  breaking  a  dead 
silence.  Slone  had  the  ears  of  a  wild  horse  in  that  he 
imagined  sounds  he  did  not  really  hear.  Many  a  lonely 
night  while  he  lay  watching  and  waiting  in  the  dark, 
ambushing  a  water-hole  where  wild  horses  drank,  he  had 
heard  soft  treads  that  were  only  the  substance  of  dreams. 
That  was  why,  on  this  night  when  he  was  ove  strained, 
he  fancied  he  saw  Lucy  coming,  a  silent,  moving  shadow, 
when  in  reality  she  did  not  come.  That  was  why  he 
thought  he  heard  very  stealthy  steps. 

He  waited.  Lucy  did  not  come.  She  had  never  failed 
before  and  he  knew  she  would  come.  Waiting  became 
hard.  He  wanted  to  go  back  toward  the  house — to  inter 
cept  her  on  the  way.  Still  he  kept  to  his  post,  watchful, 
listening,  his  heart  full.  And  he  tried  to  reason  away  his 
strange  dread,  his  sense  of  a  need  of  hurry.  For  a  time 
he  succeeded  by  dreaming  of  Lucy's  sweetness,  of  her 
courage,  of  what  a  wonderful  girl  she  was.  Hours  and 
hours  he  had  passed  in  such  dreams.  One  dream  in  par 
ticular  always  fascinated  him,  and  it  was  one  in  which  he 
saw  the  girl  riding  Wildfire,  winning  a  great  race  for  her 
life.  Another,  just  as  fascinating,  but  so  haunting  that 
he  always  dispelled  it,  was  a  dream  where  Lucy,  alone 

287 


WILDFIRE 

and  in  peril,  fought  with  Cordts  or  Joel  Creech  for  more 
than  her  life.  These  vague  dreams  were  Slone's  accept 
ance  of  the  blood  and  spirit  in  Lucy.  She  was  Bostil's 
daughter.  She  had  no  sense  of  fear.  She  would  fight. 
And  though  Slone  always  thrilled  with  pride,  he  also 
trembled  with  dread. 

At  length  even  wilder  dreams  of  Lucy's  rare  moments, 
when  she  let  herself  go,  like  a  desert  whirlwind,  to  en 
velop  him  in  all  her  sweetness,  could  not  avail  to  keep 
Slone  patient.  He  began  to  pace  to  and  fro  under  the 
big  tree.  He  waited  and  waited.  What  could  have  de 
tained  her?  Slone  inwardly  laughed  at  the  idea  that 
either  Holley  or  Aunt  Jane  could  keep  his  girl  indoors 
when  she  wanted  to  come  out  to  meet  him.  Yet  Lucy 
had  always  said  something  might  prevent.  There  was 
no  reason  for  Slone  to  be  concerned.  He  was  mistaking 
his  thrills  and  excitement  and  love  and  disappointment 
for  something  in  which  there  was  no  reality.  Yet  he 
could  not  help  it.  The  longer  he  waited  the  more  shadows 
glided  beneath  the  cottonwoods,  the  more  faint,  nameless 
sounds  he  heard. 

He  waited  long  after  he  became  convinced  she  would 
not  come.  Upon  his  return  through  the  grove  he  reached 
a  point  where  the  unreal  and  imaginative  perceptions  were 
suddenly  and  stunningly  broken.  He  did  hear  a  step! 
He  kept  on,  as  before,  and  in  the  deep  shadow  he  turned. 
He  saw  a  man  just  faintly  outlined.  One  of  the  riders 
had  been  watching  him — had  followed  him!  Slone  had 
always  expected  this.  So  had  Lucy.  And  now  it  had 
happened.  But  Lucy  had  been  too  clever.  She  had  not 
come.  She  had  found  out  or  suspected  the  spy  and  she 
had  outwitted  him.  Slone  had  reason  to  be  prouder  of 
Lucy,  and  he  went  back  to  his  cabin  free  from  further 
anxiety.  t 

Before  he  went  to  sleep,  however,  he  heard  the  clatter 
of  a  number  of  horses  in  the  lane.  He  could  tell  they 
were  tired  horses.  Riders  returning,  he  thought,  and 

288 


WILDFIRE 

instantly  corrected  that,  for  riders  seldom  came  in  at 
night.  And  then  it  occurred  to  him  that  it  might  be 
Bostil's  return.  But  then  it  might  be  the  Creeches. 
Slone  had  an  uneasy  return  of  puzzling  thoughts.  These, 
however,  did  not  hinder  drowsiness,  and,  deciding  that 
the  first  thing  in  the  morning  he  would  trail  the  Creeches, 
just  to  see  where  they  had  gone,  he  fell  asleep. 

In  the  morning  the  bright,  broad  day,  with  its  dis 
pelling  reality,  made  Slone  regard  himself  differently. 
Things  that  oppressed  him  in  the  dark  of  night  vanished 
in  the  light  of  the  sun.  Still,  he  was  curious  about  the 
Creeches,  and  after  he  had  done  his  morning's  work  he 
strolled  out  to  take  up  their  trail.  It  was  not  hard  to 
follow  in  the  lane,  for  no  other  horses  had  gone  in  that 
direction  since  the  Creeches  had  left. 

Once  up  on  the  wide,  windy  slope  the  reach  and  color 
and  fragrance  seemed  to  call  to  Slone  irresistibly,  and  he 
fell  to  trailing  these  tracks  just  for  the  love  of  a  skill  long 
unused.  Half  a  mile  out  the  road  turned  toward  Durango. 
But  the  Creeches  did  not  continue  on  that  road.  They 
entered  the  sage.  Instantly  Slone  became  curious. 

He  followed  the  tracks  to  a  pile  of  rocks  where  the 
Creeches  had  made  a  greasewood  fire  and  had  cooked  a 
meal.  This  was  strange — within  a  mile  of  the  Ford, 
where  Brackton  and  others  would  have  housed  them. 
What  was  stranger  was  the  fact  that  the  trail  started 
south  from  there  and  swung  round  toward  the  village. 

Slone's  heart  began  to  thump.  But  he  forced  himself 
to  think  only  of  these  tracks  and  not  any  significance  they 
might  have.  He  trailed  the  men  down  to  a  bench  on  the 
slope,  a  few  hundred  yards  from  Bostil's  grove,  and  here 
a  trampled  space  marked  where  a  halt  had  been  made 
and  a  wait. 

And  here  Slone  could  no  longer  restrain  conjecture 
and  dread.  He  searched  and  searched.  He  got  on  his 
knees.  He  crawled  through  the  sage  all  around  the 
trampled  space.  Suddenly  his  heart  seemed  to  receive 

289 


WILDFIRE 

a  stab.  He  had  found  prints  of  Lucy's  boots  in  the  soft 
earth!  And  he  leaped  up,  wild  and  fierce,  needing  to 
know  no  more. 

He  ran  back  to  his  cabin.  He  never  thought  of  Bostil, 
of  Holley,  of  anything  except  the  story  revealed  in  those 
little  boot-tracks.  He  packed  a  saddle-bag  with  meat 
and  biscuits,  filled  a  canvas  water-bottle,  and,  taking  them 
and  his  rifle,  he  hurried  out  to  the  corral.  First  he  took 
Nagger  down  to  Brackton's  pasture  and  let  him  in. 
Then  returning,  he  went  at  the  fiery  stallion  as  he  had  not 
gone  in  many  a  day,  roped  him,  saddled  him,  mounted 
him,  and  rode  off  with  a  hard,  grim  certainty  that  in 
Wildfire  was  Lucy's  salvation. 

Four  hours  later  Slone  halted  on  the  crest  of  a  ridge, 
in  the  cover  of  sparse  cedars,  and  surveyed  a  vast,  gray, 
barren  basin  yawning  and  reaching  out  to  a  rugged, 
broken  plateau. 

He  expected  to  find  Joel  Creech  returning  on  the  back- 
trail,  and  he  had  taken  the  precaution  to  ride  on  one  side 
of  the  tracks  he  was  following.  He  did  not  want  Joel 
to  cross  his  trail.  Slone  had  long  ago  solved  the  mean 
ing  of  the  Creeches'  flight.  They  would  use  Lucy  to  ran 
som  Bostil's  horses,  and  more  than  likely  they  would  not 
let  her  go  back.  That  they  had  her  was  enough  for 
Slone.  He  was  grim  and  implacable. 

The  eyes  of  the  wild-horse  hunter  had  not  searched  that 
basin  long  before  they  picked  out  a  dot  which  was  not  a 
rock  or  a  cedar,  but  a  horse.  Slone  watched  it  grow,  and, 
hidden  himself,  he  held  his  post  until  he  knew  the  rider 
was  Joel  Creech.  Slone  drew  his  own  horse  back  and 
tied  him  to  a  sage-bush  amidst  some  scant  grass.  Then 
he  returned  to  watch.  It  appeared  Creech  was  climbing 
the  ridge  below  Slone,  and  some  distance  away.  It  was 
a  desperate  chance  Joel  ran  then,  for  Slone  had  set  out 
to  kill  him.  It  was  certain  that  if  Joel  had  happened  to 
ride  near  instead  of  far,  Slone  could  not  have  helped  but 
kill  him.  As  it  was,  he  desisted  because  he  realized  that 

290 


WILDFIRE 

Joel  would  acquaint  Bostil  with  the  abducting  of  Lucy, 
and  it  might  be  that  this  would  be  well. 

Slone  was  shaking  when  young  Creech  passed  up  and 
out  of  sight  over  the  ridge — shaking  with  the  deadly  grip 
of  passion  such  as  he  had  never  known.  He  waited,  slowly 
gaining  control,  and  at  length  went  back  for  Wildfire. 

Then  he  rode  boldly  forth  on  the  trail.  He  calculated 
that  old  Creech  would  take  Lucy  to  some  wild  retreat  in 
the  canons  and  there  wait  for  Joel  and  the  horses.  Creech 
had  almost  certainly  gone  on  and  would  be  unaware  of 
a  pursuer  so  closely  on  his  trail.  Slone  took  the  direction 
of  the  trail,  and  he  saw  a  low,  dark  notch  in  the  rocky 
wall  in  the  distance.  After  that  he  paid  no  more  attention 
to  choosing  good  ground  for  Wildfire  than  he  did  to  the 
trail.  The  stallion  was  more  tractable  than  Slone  had 
ever  found  him.  He  loved  the  open.  He  smelled  the 
sage  and  the  wild.  He  settled  down  into  his  long,  easy, 
swinging  lope  which  seemed  to  eat  up  the  miles.  Slone 
was  obsessed  with  thoughts  centering  round  Lucy,  and 
time  and  distance  were  scarcely  significant. 

The  sun  had  dipped  full  red  in  a  golden  west  when 
Slone  reached  the  wall  of  rocks  and  the  cleft  where 
Creech's  tracks  and  Lucy's,  too,  marked  the  camp. 
Slone  did  not  even  dismount.  Riding  on  into  the  cleft, 
he  wound  at  length  into  a  canon  and  out  of  that  into  a 
larger  one,  where  he  found  that  Lucy  had  remembered 
to  leave  a  trail,  and  down  this  to  a  break  in  a  high  wall, 
and  through  it  to  another  winding  canon.  The  sun  set, 
but  Slone  kept  on  as  long  as  he  could  see  the  trail,  and  after 
that,  until  an  intersecting  canon  made  it  wise  for  him  to 
halt. 

There  were  rich  grass  and  sweet  water  for  his  horse. 
He  himself  was  not  hungry,  but  he  ate;  he  was  not  sleepy, 
but  he  slept.  And  daylight  found  him  urging  Wildfire 
in  pursuit.  On  the  rocky  places  Slone  found  the  cedar 
berries  Lucy  had  dropped.  He  welcomed  sight  of  them, 
but  he  did  not  need  them.  This  man  Creech  could  never 

20  291 


WILDFIRE 

hide  a  trail  from  him,  Slone  thought  grimly,  and 
it  suited  him  to  follow  that  trail  at  a  rapid  trot.  If  he 
lost  the  tracks  for  a  distance  he  went  right  on,  and  he 
knew  where  to  look  for  them  ahead.  There  was  a  vast 
difference  between  the  cunning  of  Creech  and  the  cun 
ning  of  a  wild  horse.  And  there  was  an  equal  difference 
between  the  going  and  staying  powers  of  Creech's  mus 
tangs  and  Wildfire.  Yes,  Slone  divined  that  Lucy's  sal 
vation  would  be  Wildfire,  her  horse.  The  trail  grew 
rougher,  steeper,  harder,  but  the  stallion  kept  his  eager 
ness  and  his  pace.  On  many  an  open  length  of  canon 
or  height  of  wild  upland  Slone  gazed  ahead  hoping  to 
see  Creech's  mustangs.  He  hoped  for  that  even  when  he 
knew  he  was  still  too  far  behind.  And  then,  suddenly, 
in  the  open,  sandy  flat  of  an  intersecting  canon  he  came 
abruptly  on  a  fresh  trail  of  three  horses,  one  of  them 
shod. 

The  surprise  stunned  him.  For  a  moment  he  gazed 
stupidly  at  these  strange  tracks.  Who  had  made  them? 
Had  Creech  met  allies?  Was  that  likely  when  the  man 
had  no  friends?  Pondering  the  thing,  Slone  went  slowly 
on,  realizing  that  a  new  and  disturbing  feature  confronted 
him.  Then  when  these  new  tracks  met  the  trail  that 
Creech  had  left  Slone  found  that  these  strangers  were  as 
interested  in  Creech's  tracks  as  he  was.  Slone  found  their 
boot-marks  in  the  sand — the  hand-prints  where  some  one 
had  knelt  to  scrutinize  Creech's  trail. 

Slone  led  his  horse  and  walked  on,  more  and  more  dis 
turbed  in  mind.  When  he  came  to  a  larger,  bare,  flat 
canon  bottom,  where  the  rock  had  been  washed  clear  of 
sand,  he  found  no  more  cedar  berries.  They  had  been 
picked  up.  At  the  other  extreme  edge  of  this  stony 
ground  he  found  crumpled  bits  of  cedar  and  cedar  berries 
scattered  in  one  spot,  as  if  thrown  there  by  some  one  who 
read  their  meaning. 

This  discovery  unnerved  Slone.  It  meant  so  much. 
And  if  Slone  had  any  hope  or  reason  to  doubt  that  these 

292 


WILDFIRE 

strangers  had  taken  up  the  trail  for  good,  the  next  few 
miles  dispelled  it.  They  were  trailing  Creech. 

Suddenly  Slone  gave  a  wild  start,  which  made  Wildfire 
plunge. 

"Cordts!"  whispered  Slone  •  and  the  cold  sweat  oozed 
out  of  every  pore. 

These  canons  were  the  hiding-places  of  the  horse-thief. 
He  and  two  of  his  men  had  chanced  upon  Creech's  trail; 
and  perhaps  their  guess  at  its  meaning  was  like  Slone's. 
If  they  had  not  guessed  they  would  soon  learn.  It 
magnified  Slone's  task  a  thousandfold.  He  had  a  mo 
ment  of  bitter,  almost  hopeless  realization  before  a  more 
desperate  spirit  awoke  in  him.  He  had  only  more  men  to 
kill — that  was  all.  These  upland  riders  did  not  pack 
rifles,  of  that  Slone  was  sure.  And  the  sooner  he  came 
up  with  Cordts  the  better.  It  was  then  he  let  Wildfire 
choose  his  gait  and  the  trail.  Sunset,  twilight,  dusk, 
and  darkness  came  with  Slone  keeping  on  and  on.  As 
long  as  there  were  no  intersecting  canons  or  clefts  or  slopes 
by  which  Creech  might  have  swerved  from  his  course, 
just  so  long  Slone  would  travel.  And  it  was  late  in  the 
night  when  he  had  to  halt. 

Early  next  day  the  trail  led  up  out  of  the  red  and 
broken  gulches  to  the  cedared  uplands.  Slone  saw  a 
black-rimmed,  looming  plateau  in  the  distance.  All  these 
winding  canons,  and  the  necks  of  the  high  ridges  between  ^ 
must  run  up  to  that  great  table-land. 

That  day  he  lost  two  of  the  horse  tracks.  He  did 
not  mark  the  change  for  a  long  time  after  there  had  been 
a  split  in  the  party  that  had  been  trailing  Creech.  Then 
it  was  too  late  for  him  to  go  back  to  investigate,  even 
if  that  had  been  wise.  He  kept  on,  pondering,  trying  to 
decide  whether  or  not  he  had  been  discovered  and  was 
now  in  danger  of  ambush  ahead  and  pursuit  from  behind. 
He  thought  that  possibly  Cordts  had  split  his  party,  one 
to  trail  along  after  Creech,  the  others  to  work  around  to 
head  him  off.  Undoubtedly  Cordts  knew  this  broken 

293 


WILDFIRE 

canon  country  and  could  tell  where  Creech  was  going,  and 
knew  how  to  intercept  him. 

The  uncertainty  wore  heavily  upon  Slone.  He  grew 
desperate.  He  had  no  time  to  steal  along  cautiously. 
He  must  be  the  first  to  get  to  Creech.  So  he  held  to  the 
trail  and  went  as  rapidly  as  the  nature  of  the  ground 
would  permit,  expecting  to  be  shot  at  from  any  clump 
of  cedars.  The  trail  led  down  again  into  a  narrow  canon 
with  low  walls.  Slone  put  all  his  keenness  on  what  lay 
before  him. 

Wildfire's  sudden  break  and  upflinging  of  head  and  his 
snort  preceded  the  crack  of  a  rifle.  Slone  knew  he  had 
been  shot  at,  although  he  neither  felt  nor  heard  the  bullet. 
He  had  no  chance  to  see  where  the  shot  came  from,  for 
Wildfire  bolted,  and  needed  as  much  holding  and  guiding 
as  Slone  could  give.  He  ran  a  mile.  Then  Slone  was 
able  to  look  about  him.  Had  he  been  shot  at  from  above 
or  behind?  He  could  not  tell.  It  did  not  matter,  so 
long  as  the  danger  was  not  in  front.  He  kept  a  sharp 
lookout,  and  presently  along  the  right  canon  rim,  five 
hundred  feet  above  him,  he  saw  a  bay  horse,  and  a  rider 
with  a  rifle.  He  had  been  wrong,  then,  about  these 
riders  and  their  weapons.  Slone  did  not  see  any  wisdom 
in  halting  to  shoot  up  at  this  pursuer,  and  he  spurred 
Wildfire  just  as  a  sharp  crack  sounded  above.  The  bullet 
thudded  into  the  earth  a  few  feet  behind  him.  And  then 
over  bad  ground,  with  the  stallion  almost  unmanageable, 
Slone  ran  a  gantlet  of  shots.  Evidently  the  man  on  the 
rim.  had  smooth  ground  to  ride  over,  for  he  easily  kept 
abreast  of  Slone.  But  he  could  not  get  the  range.  For 
tunately  for  Slone,  broken  ramparts  above  checked  the 
tricks  of  that  pursuer,  and  Slone  saw  no  more  of  him. 

It  afforded  him  great  relief  to  find  that  Creech's  trail 
turned  into  a  canon  on  the  left;  and  here,  with  the  sun 
already  low,  Slone  began  to  watch  the  clumps  of  cedars 
and  the  jumbles  of  rock.  But  he  was  not  ambushed. 
Darkness  set  in,  and,  being  tired  out,  he  was  about  to 

294 


WILDFIRE 

halt  for  the  night  when  he  caught  the  flicker  of  a  camp- 
fire.  The  stallion  saw  it,  too,  but  did  not  snort.  Slone 
dismounted  and,  leading  him,  went  cautiously  forward 
on  foot,  rifle  in  hand. 

The  canon  widened  at  a  point  where  two  breaks  oc 
curred,  and  the  less-restricted  space  was  thick  with  cedar 
and  pifion.  Slone  could  tell  by  the  presence  of  these 
trees  and  also  by  a  keener  atmosphere  that  he  was  slowly 
getting  to  a  higher  altitude.  This  camp-fire  must  belong 
to  Cordts  or  the  one  man  who  had  gone  on  ahead.  And 
Slone  advanced  boldly.  He  did  not  have  to  make  up 
his  mind  what  to  do. 

But  he  was  amazed  to  see  several  dark  forms  moving 
to  and  fro  before  the  bright  camp-fire,  and  he  checked 
himself  abruptly.  Considering  a  moment,  Slone  thought 
he  had  better  have  a  look  at  these  fellows.  So  he  tied 
Wildfire  and,  taking  to  the  darker  side  of  the  canon,  he 
stole  cautiously  forward. 

The  distance  was  considerable,  as  he  had  calculated. 
Soon,  however,  he  made  out  the  shadowy  outlines  of 
horses  feeding  in  the  open.  He  hugged  the  canon  wall 
for  fear  they  might  see  him.  As  luck  would  have  it  the 
night  breeze  was  in  his  favor.  Stealthily  he  stole  on,  in 
the  deep  shadow  of  the  wall,  and  under  the  cedars,  until 
he  came  to  a  point  opposite  the  camp-fire,  and  then  he 
turned  toward  it.  He  went  slowly,  carefully,  noiselessly, 
and  at  last  he  crawled  through  the  narrow  aisles  between 
thick  sage-brush.  Another  clump  of  cedars  loomed  up, 
and  he  saw  the  flickering  of  firelight  upon  the  pale-green 
foliage. 

He  heard  gruff  voices  before  he  raised  himself  to  look, 
and  by  this  he  gauged  his  distance.  He  was  close  enough 
— almost  too  close.  But  as  he  crouched  in  dark  shade 
and  there  were  no  horses  near,  he  did  not  fear  discovery. 

When  he  peered  out  from  his  covert  the  first  thing  to 
strike  and  hold  his  rapid  glance  was  the  slight  figure  of 
a  girl.  Slone  stifled  a  gasp  in  his  throat.  He  thought  he 

295 


WILDFIRE 

recognized  Lucy.  Stunned,  he  crouched  down  again 
with  his  hands  clenched  round  his  rifle.  And  there  he 
remained  for  a  long  moment  of  agony  before  reason  as 
serted  itself  over  emotion.  Had  he  really  seen  Lucy? 
He  had  heard  of  a  girl  now  and  then  in  the  camps  of  these 
men,  especially  Cordts.  Maybe  Creech  had  fallen  in 
with  comrades.  No,  he  could  not  have  had  any  com 
rades  there  but  horse-thieves,  and  Creech  was  above  that. 
If  Creech  was  there  he  had  been  held  up  by  Cordts;  if 
Lucy  only  was  with  the  gang,  Creech  had  been  killed. 

Slone  had  to  force  himself  to  look  again.  The  girl 
had  changed  her  position.  But  the  light  shone  upon  the 
men.  Creech  was  not  one  of  the  three,  nor  Cordts,  nor 
any  man  Slone  had  seen  before.  They  were  not  honest 
men,  judging  from  their  hard,  evil  looks.  Slone  was  non 
plussed  and  he  was  losing  self-control.  Again  he  lowered 
himself  and  waited.  He  caught  the  word  "Durango" 
and  "hosses"  and  "fer  enough  in,"  the  meaning  of  which 
was  vague.  Then  the  girl  laughed.  And  Slone  found 
himself  trembling  with  joy.  Beyond  any  doubt  that 
laugh  could  not  have  been  Lucy's. 

Slone  stole  back  as  he  had  come,  reached  the  shadow 
of  the  wall,  and  drew  away  until  he  felt  it  safe  to  walk 
quickly.  When  he  reached  the  place  where  he  expected 
to  find  Wildfire  he  did  not  see  him.  Slone  looked  and 
looked.  Perhaps  he  had  misjudged  distance  and  place 
in  the  gloom.  Still,  he  never  made  mistakes  of  that 
nature.  He  searched  around  till  he  found  the  cedar 
stump  to  which  he  had  tied  the  lasso.  In  the  gloom  he 
could  not  see  it,  and  when  he  reached  out  he  did  not 
feel  it.  Wildfire  was  gone!  Slone  sank  down,  over 
come.  He  cursed  what  must  have  been  carelessness, 
though  he  knew  he  never  was  careless  with  a  horse. 
What  had  happened?  He  did  not  know.  But  Wild 
fire  was  gone — and  that  meant  Lucy's  doom  and  his! 
Slone  shook  with  cold. 

Then,  as  he  leaned  against  the  stump,  wet  and  shaking, 

296 


WILDFIRE 

a  familiar  sound  met  his  ears.  It  was  made  by  the  teeth 
of  a  grazing  horse — a  slight,  keen,  tearing  cut.  Wildfire 
was  close  at  hand !  With  a  sweep  Slone  circled  the  stump 
and  he  found  the  knot  of  the  lasso.  He  had  missed 
it.  He  began  to  gather  in  the  long  rope,  and  soon  felt 
the  horse.  In  the  black  gloom  against  the  wall  Slone 
could  not  distinguish  Wildfire. 

"Whew!"  he  muttered,  wiping  the  sweat  off  his  face. 
"Good  Lord! ...  All  for  nothin'." 

It  did  not  take  Slone  long  to  decide  to  lead  the  horse 
and  work  up  the  canon  past  the  campers.  He  must  get 
ahead  of  them,  and  once  there  he  had  no  fear  of  them, 
either  by  night  or  day.  He  really  had  no  hopes  of  getting 
by  undiscovered,  and  all  he  wished  for  was  to  get  far 
enough  so  that  he  could  not  be  intercepted.  The  grazing 
horses  would  scent  Wildfire  or  he  would  scent  them 

For  a  wonder  Wildfire  allowed  himself  to  be  led  as  well 
as  if  he  had  been  old,  faithful  Nagger.  Slone  could  not 
keep  close  in  to  the  wall  for  very  long,  on  account  of  the 
cedars,  but  he  managed  to  stay  in  the  outer  edge  of 
shadow  cast  by  the  wall.  Wildfire  winded  the  horses, 
halted,  threw  up  his  head.  But  for  some  reason  beyond 
Slone  the  horse  did  not  snort  or  whistle.  As  he  knew 
Wildfire  he  could  have  believed  him  intelligent  enough 
and  hateful  enough  to  betray  his  master. 

It  was  one  of  the  other  horses  that  whistled  an  alarm. 
This  came  at  a  point  almost  even  with  the  camp-fire. 
Slone,  holding  Wildfire  down,  had  no  time  to  get  into  a 
stirrup,  but  leaped  to  the  saddle  and  let  the  horse  go. 
There  were  hoarse  yells  and  then  streaks  of  fire  and  shots. 
Slone  heard  the  whizz  of  heavy  bullets,  and  he  feared  for 
Wildfire.  But  the  horse  drew  swiftly  away  into  the 
darkness.  Slone  could  not  see  whether  the  ground 
was  smooth  or  broken,  and  he  left  that  to  Wildfire.  Luck 
favored  them,  and  presently  Slone  pulled  him  in  to  a  safe 
gait,  and  regretted  only  that  he  had  not  had  a  chance  to 
take  a  shot  at  that  camp. 

297 


WILDFIRE 

Slone  walked  the  horse  for  an  hour,  and  then  decided 
that  he  could  well  risk  a  halt  for  the  night. 

Before  dawn  he  was  up,  warming  his  chilled  body  by 
violent  movements,  and  forcing  himself  to  eat. 

The  rim  of  the  west  wall  changed  from  gray  to  pink. 
A  mocking-bird  burst  into  song.  A  coyote  sneaked  away 
from  the  light  of  day.  Out  in  the  open  Slone  found  the 
trail  made  by  Creech's  mustangs  and  by  the  horse  of 
Cordts's  man.  The  latter  could  not  be  very  far  ahead. 
In  less  than  an  hour  Slone  came  to  a  clump  of  cedars 
where  this  man  had  camped.  An  hour  behind  him! 

This  canon  was  open,  with  a  level  and  narrow  floor 
divided  by  a  deep  wash.  Slone  put  Wildfire  to  a  gallop. 
The  narrow  wash  was  no  obstacle  to  Wildfire;  he  did  not 
have  to  be  urged  or  checked.  It  was  not  long  before 
Slone;  saw  a  horseman  a  quarter  of  a  mile  ahead,  and 
he  was  discovered  almost  at  the  same  time.  This  fellow 
showed  both  surprise  and  fear.  He  ran  his  horse.  But 
in  comparison  with  Wildfire  that  horse  seemed  sluggish. 
Slone  would  have  caught  up  with  him  very  soon  but  for 
a  change  in  the  lay  of  the  land.  The  canon  split  up  and 
all  of  its  gorges  and  ravines  and  washes  headed  upon  the 
pine-fringed  plateau,  now  only  a  few  miles  distant.  The 
gait  of  the  horses  had  to  be  reduced  to  a  trot,  and  then 
a  walk.  The  man  Slone  was  after  left  Creech's  trail  and 
took  to  a  side  cleft.  Slone,  convinced  he  would  soon 
overhaul  him,  and  then  return  to  take  up  Creech's  trail, 
kept  on  in  pursuit.  Then  Slone  was  compelled  to  climb. 
Wildfire  was  so  superior  to  the  other's  horse,  and  Slone 
was  so  keen  at  choosing  ground  and  short  cuts,  that  he 
would  have  been  right  upon  him  but  for  a  split  in  the 
rock  which  suddenly  yawned  across  his  path.  It  was  im 
passable.  After  a  quick  glance  Slone  abandoned  the  di 
rect  pursuit,  and,  turning  along  this  gulch,  he  gained  a 
point  where  the  horse-thief  would  pass  under  the  base 
of  the  rim-wall,  and  here  Slone  would  have  him  within 
easy  rifle-shot. 

298 


WILDFIRE 

And  the  man,  intent  on  getting  out  of  the  canon,  rode 
into  the  trap,  approaching  to  within  a  hundred  yards  of 
Slone,  who  suddenly  showed  himself  on  foot,  rifle  in  hand. 
The  deep  gulch  was  a  barrier  to  Slone's  further  progress, 
but  his  rifle  dominated  the  situation. 

"Hold  on!"  he  called,  warningly. 

"Hold  on  yerself !"  yelled  the  other,  aghast,  as  he  halted 
his  horse.  He  gazed  down  and  evidently  was  quick  to 
take  in  the  facts. 

Slone  had  meant  to  kill  this  man  without  even  a 
word,  yet  now  when  the  moment  had  come  a  feeling  almost 
of  sickness  clouded  his  resolve.  But  he  leveled  the  rifle. 

"I  got  it  on  you,"  he  called. 

"Reckon  you  hev.     But  see  hyar — " 

"I  can  hit  you  anywhere." 

"Wai,  I'll  take  yer  word  fer  thet." 

"All  right.  Now  talk  fast. . . .  Are  you  •ne  of  Cordts's 
gang?" 

"Sure." 

"Why  are  you  alone?" 

"We  split  down  hyar." 

"Did  you  know  I  was  on  this  trail?" 

"Nope.  I  didn't  sure,  or  you'd  nerer  ketched  me, 
red  hoss  or  no." 

"Who  were  you  trailin'?" 

"Ole  Creech  an'  the  girl  he  kidnapped." 

Slone  felt  the  leap  of  his  blood  and  the  jerk  it  gave 
the  rifle  as  his  tense  finger  trembled  on  the  trigger. 

"Girl What  girl?"  he  called,  hoarsely. 

"Bostil's  girl." 

"Why  did  Cordts  split  on  the  trail?" 

"  He  an'  Hutch  went  round  fer  some  more  of  the  gang, 
an'  to  head  off  Joel  Creech  when  he  comes  in  with  Bostil's 
hosses." 

Slone  was  amazed  to  find  how  the  horse-thieves  had 
calculated ;  yet,  on  second  thought,  the  situation,  once  the 
Creeches  had  been  recognized,  appeared  simple  enough. 

299 


WILDFIRE 

"What  was  your  game?"  he  demanded. 

"I  was  follerin'  Creech  jest  to  find  out  where  he'd  hole 
up  with  the  girl." 

"What's  Cordts's  game— after  he  heads  Joel  Creech?" 

"Then  he's  goin'  fer  the  girl." 

Slone  scarcely  needed  to  be  told  all  this,  but  the  de 
liberate  words  from  the  lips  of  one  of  Cordts's  gang  bore 
a  raw,  brutal  proof  of  Lucy's  peril.  And  yet  Slone  could 
not  bring  himself  to  kill  this  man  in  cold  blood.  He 
tried,  but  in  vain. 

"Have  you  got  a  gun?"  called  Slone,  hoarsely. 

"Sure." 

"Ride  back  the  other  way!  ...  If  you  don't  lose  me  I'll 
kiU  you!" 

The  man  stared.  Slone  saw  the  color  return  to  his 
pale  face.  Then  he  turned  his  horse  and  rode  back  out 
of  sight.  Slone  heard  him  rolling  the  stones  down  the 
long,  rough  slope;  and  when  he  felt  sure  the  horse-thief 
had  gotten  a  fair  start  he  went  back  to  mount  Wildfire 
in  pursuit. 

This  trailer  of  Lucy  never  got  back  to  Lucy's  trail — 
never  got  away. 

But  Slone,  when  that  day's  hard,  deadly  pursuit 
ended,  found  himself  lost  in  the  canons.  How  bitterly 
he  cursed  both  his  weakness  in  not  shooting  the  man 
at  sight,  and  his  strength  in  following  him  with  im 
placable  purpose!  For  to  be  fair,  to  give  the  horse- 
thief  a  chance  for  his  life,  Slone  had  lost  Lucy's  trail. 
The  fact  nearly  distracted  him.  He  spent  a  sleepless 
night  of  torture. 

All  next  day,  like  a  wild  man,  he  rode  and  climbed  and 
descended,  spurred  by  one  purpose,  pursued  by  suspense 
and  dread.  That  night  he  tied  Wildfire  near  water  and 
grass  and  fell  into  the  sleep  of  exhaustion. 

Morning  came.  But  with  it  no  hope.  He  had  been 
desperate.  And  now  he  was  in  a  frightful  state.  It 

300 


WILDFIRE 

seemed  that  days  and  days  had  passed,  and  nights  that 
were  hideous  with  futile  nightmares. 

He  rode  down  into  a  canon  with  sloping  walls,  and 
broken,  like  all  of  these  canons  under  the  great  plateau. 
Every  canon  resembled  another.  The  upland  was  one 
vast  network.  The  world  seemed  a  labyrinth  of  canons 
among  which  he  was  hopelessly  lost.  What  would — what 
had  become  of  Lucy?  Every  thought  in  his  whirling 
brain  led  back  to  that — and  it  was  terrible. 

Then — he  was  gazing  transfixed  down  upon  the  familiar 
tracks  left  by  Creech's  mustangs.  Days  old,  but  still 
unf  ollowed ! 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THAT  track  led  up  the  narrowing  canon  to  its  head 
at  the  base  of  the  plateau. 

Slone,  mindful  of  his  horse,  climbed  on  foot,  halting 
at  the  zigzag  turns  to  rest.  A  long,  gradually  ascending 
trail  mounted  the  last  slope,  which  when  close  at  hand 
was  not  so  precipitous  as  it  appeared  from  below.  Up 
there  the  wind,  sucked  out  of  the  canons,  swooped  and 
twisted  hard. 

At  last  Slone  led  Wildfire  over  the  rim  and  halted  for 
another  breathing-spell.  Before  him  was  a  beautiful, 
gently  sloping  stretch  of  waving  grass  leading  up  to  the 
dark  pine  forest  from  which  came  a  roar  of  wind.  Be 
neath  Slone  the  wild  and  whorled  canon  breaks  extended, 
wonderful  in  thousands  of  denuded  surfaces,  gold  and 
red  and  yellow,  with  the  smoky  depths  between. 

Wildfire  sniffed  the  wind  and  snorted.  Slone  turned, 
instantly  alert.  The  wild  horse  had  given  an  alarm. 
Like  a  flash  Slone  leaped  into  the  saddle.  A  faint  cry, 
away  from  the  wind,  startled  Slone.  It  was  like  a  cry 
he  had  heard  in  dreams.  How  overstrained  his  percep 
tions!  He  was  not  really  sure  of  anything,  yet  on  the 
instant  he  was  tense. 

Straggling  cedars  on  his  left  almost  wholly  obstructed 
Slone's  view.  Wildfire's  ears  and  nose  were  pointed  that 
way.  Slone  trotted  him  down  toward  the  edge  of  this 
cedar  clump  so  that  he  could  see  beyond.  Before  he 
reached  it,  however,  he  saw  something  blue,  moving, 
waving,  lifting. 

"Smoke!"  muttered  Slone.  And  he  thought  more  of 

302 


WILDFIRE 

the  danger  of  fire  on  that  windy  height  than  he  did  of 
another  peril  to  himself. 

Wildfire  was  hard  to  hold  as  he  rounded  the  edge  of 
the  cedars. 

Slone  saw  a  line  of  leaping  flame,  a  line  of  sweeping 
smoke,  the  grass  on  fire  ...  horses! — a  man! 

Wildfire  whistled  his  ringing  blast  of  hate  and  menace, 
his  desert  challenge  to  another  stallion. 

The  man  whirled  to  look. 

Slone  saw  Joel  Creech — and  Sage  King — and  Lucy, 
half  naked,  bound  on  his  back! 

Joy,  agony,  terror  in  lightning-swift  turns,  paralyzed 
Slone.  But  Wildfire  lunged  out  on  the  run. 

Sage  King  reared  in  fright,  came  down  to  plunge  away, 
and  with  a  magnificent  leap  cleared  the  line  of  fire. 

Slone,  more  from  habit  than  thought,  sat  close  in  the 
saddle.  A  few  of  Wildfire's  lengthening  strides  quickened 
Slone's  blood.  Then  Creech  moved,  also  awaking  from 
a  stupefying  surprise,  and  he  snatched  up  a  gun  and 
fired.  Slone  saw  the  spurts  of  red,  the  puffs  of  white. 
But  he  heard  nothing.  The  torrent  of  his  changed 
blood,  burning  and  terrible,  filled  his  ears  with  hate  and 
death. 

He  guided  the  running  stallion.  In  a  few  tremendous 
strides  Wildfire  struck  Creech,  and  Slone  had  one  glimpse 
of  an  awful  face.  The  impact  was  terrific.  Creech  went 
hurtling  through  the  air,  limp  and  broken,  to  go  down 
upon  a  rock,  his  skull  cracking  like  a  melon. 

The  horse  leaped  over  the  body  and  the  stone,  and 
beyond  he  leaped  the  line  of  burning  grass. 

Slone  saw  the  King  running  into  the  forest.  He  saw 
poor  Lucy's  white  body  swinging  with  the  horse's  motion. 
One  glance  showed  the  great  gray  to  be  running  wild. 
Then  the  hate  and  passion  cleared  away,  leaving  suspense 
and  terror. 

Wildfire  reached  the  pines.  There  down  the  open  aisles 
between  the  black  trees  ran  the  fleet  gray  racer.  Wildfire 

3°3 


WILDFIRE 

saw  him  and  snorted.  The  King  was  a  hundred  yards 
to  the  fore. 

"Wildfire — it's  come — the  race — the  race!"  called 
Slone.  But  he  could  not  hear  his  own  call.  There  was 
a  roar  overhead,  heavy,  almost  deafening.  The  wind! 
the  wind!  Yet  that  roar  did  not  deaden  a  strange, 
shrieking  crack  somewhere  behind.  Wildfire  leaped  in 
fright.  Slone  turned.  Fire  had  run  up  a  pine-tree, 
which  exploded  as  if  the  trunk  were  powder! 

" My  God!    A  race  with  fire!  .  .  .  Lucy!    Lucy!" 

In  that  poignant  cry  Slone  uttered  his  realization  of  the 
strange  fate  that  had  waited  for  the  inevitable  race  be 
tween  Wildfire  and  the  King;  he  uttered  his  despairing 
love  for  Lucy,  and  his  acceptance  of  death  for  her  and 
himself.  No  horse  could  outrun  wind-driven  fire  in  a 
dry  pine  forest.  Slone  had  no  hope  of  that.  How  per 
fectly  fate  and  time  and  place  and  horses,  himself  and 
his  sweetheart,  had  met!  Slone  damned  Joel  Creech's 
insane  soul  to  everlasting  torment.  To  think — to  think 
his  idiotic  and  wild  threat  had  come  true — and  come  true 
with  a  gale  in  the  pine-tops!  Slone  grew  old  at  the 
thought,  and  the  fact  seemed  to  be  a  dream.  But  the 
dry,  pine-scented  air  made  breathing  hard;  the  gray 
racer,  carrying  that  slender,  half -naked  form,  white  in 
the  forest  shade,  lengthened  into  his  fleet  and  beautiful 
stride;  the  motion  of  Wildfire,  so  easy,  so  smooth,  so 
swift,  and  the  fierce  reach  of  his  head  shooting  forward — 
all  these  proved  that  it  was  no  dream. 

Tense  questions  pierced  the  dark  chaos  of  Slone's 
mind — what  could  he  do?  Run  the  King  down!  Make 
him  kill  Lucy!  Save  her  from  horrible  death  by  fire! 

The  red  horse  had  not  gained  a  yard  on  the  gray. 
Slone,  keen  to  judge  distance,  saw  this,  and  for  the  first 
time  he  doubted  Wildfire's  power  to  run  down  the  King. 
Not  with  such  a  lead!  It  was  hopeless — so  hopeless. 

He  turned  to  look  back.  He  saw  no  fire,  no  smoke- 
only  the  dark  trunks,  and  the  massed  green  foliage  in 

304 


WILDFIRE 

violent  agitation  against  the  blue  sky.  That  revived  a 
faint  hope.  If  he  could  get  a  few  miles  ahead,  before  the 
fire  began  to  leap  across  the  pine-crests,  then  it  might 
be  possible  to  run  out  of  the  forest  if  it  were  not  wide. 

Then  a  stronger  hope  grew.  It  seemed  that  foot  by 
foot  Wildfire  was  gaining  on  the  King.  Slone  studied  the 
level  forest  floor  sliding  toward  him.  He  lost  his  hope — 
then  regained  it  again,  and  then  he  spurred  the  horse. 
Wildfire  hated  that  as  he  hated  Slone.  But  apparently 
he  did  not  quicken  his  strides.  And  Slone  could  not  tell 
if  he  lengthened  them.  He  was  not  running  near  his 
limit  but,  after  the  nature  of  such  a  horse,  left  to  choose 
his  gait,  running  slowly,  but  rising  toward  his  swiftest 
and  fiercest. 

Slone's  rider's  blood  never  thrilled  to  that  race,  for  his 
blood  had  curdled.  The  sickness  within  rose  to  his  mind. 
And  that  flashed  up  whenever  he  dared  to  look  forward 
at  Lucy's  white  form.  Slone  could  not  bear  this  sight; 
it  almost  made  him  reel,  yet  he  was  driven  to  look.  He 
saw  that  the  King  carried  no  saddle,  so  with  Lucy  on  him 
he  was  light.  He  ought  to  run  all  day  with  only  that 
weight.  Wildfire  carried  a  heavy  saddle,  a  pack,  a  water- 
bag,  and  a  rifle.  Slone  untied  the  pack  and  let  it  drop. 
He  almost  threw  aside  the  water-bag,  but  something  with 
held  his  hand,  and  also  he  kept  his  rifle.  What  were  a 
few  more  pounds  to  this  desert  stallion  in  his  last  run? 
Slone  knew  it  was  Wildfire's  greatest  and  last  race. 

Suddenly  Slone's  ears  rang  with  a  terrible  on-coming 
roar.  For  an  instant  the  unknown  sound  stiffened  him, 
robbed  him  of  strength.  Only  the  horn  of  the  saddle, 
hooking  into  him,  held  him  on.  Then  the  years  of  his 
desert  life  answered  to  a  call  more  than  human. 

He  had  to  race  against  fire.  He  must  beat  the  flame 
to  the  girl  he  loved.  There  were  miles  of  dry  forest,  like 
powder.  Fire  backed  by  a  heavy  gale  could  rage  through 
dry  pine  faster  than  any  horse  could  run.  He  might 
fail  to  save  Lucy.  Fate  had  given  him  a  bitter  ride. 

305 


WILDFIRE 

But  he  swore  a  grim  oath  that  he  would  beat  the  flame. 
The  intense  and  abnormal  rider's  passion  in  him,  like 
Bostil's,  dammed  up,  but  never  fully  controlled,  burst 
within  him,  and  suddenly  he  awoke  to  a  wild  and  terri 
ble  violence  of  heart  and  soul.  He  had  accepted  death; 
he  had  no  fear.  All  that  he  wanted  to  do,  the  last  thing 
he  wanted  to  do,  was  to  ride  down  the  King  and  kill 
Lucy  mercifully.  How  he  would  have  gloried  to  burn 
there  in  the  forest,  and  for  a  million  years  in  the  dark  be 
yond,  to  save  the  girl ! 

He  goaded  the  horse.     Then  he  looked  back. 

Through  the  aisles  of  the  forest  he  saw  a  strange, 
streaky,  murky  something  moving,  alive,  shifting  up  and 
down,  never  an  instant  the  same.  It  must  have  been  the 
wind — the  heat  before  the  fire.  He  seemed  to  see  through 
it,  but  there  was  nothing  beyond,  only  opaque,  dim, 
mustering  clouds.  Hot  puffs  shot  forward  into  his  face. 
His  eyes  smarted  and  stung.  His  ears  hurt  and  were 
growing  deaf.  The  tumult  was  the  roar  of  avalanches, 
of  maelstroms,  of  rushing  seas,  of  the  wreck  of  the  up 
lands  and  the  ruin  of  the  earth.  It  grew  to  be  so  great 
a  roar  that  he  no  longer  heard.  There  was  only  silence. 

And  he  turned  to  face  ahead.  The  stallion  stretched 
low  on  a  dead  run;  the  tips  of  the  pines  were  bending 
before  the  wind;  and  Wildfire,  the  terrible  thing  for  which 
his  horse  was  named,  was  leaping  through  the  forest. 
But  there  was  no  sound. 

Ahead  of  Slone,  down  the  aisles,  low  under  the  trees 
spreading  over  the  running  King,  floated  swiftly  some 
medium,  like  a  transparent  veil.  It  was  neither  smoke 
nor  air.  It  carried  faint  pin-points  of  light,  sparks,  that 
resembled  atoms  of  dust  floating  in  sunlight.  It  was  a 
wave  of  heat  driven  before  the  storm  of  fire.  Slone  did 
not  feel  pain,  but  he  seemed  to  be  drying  up,  parching. 
And  Lucy  must  be  suffering  now.  He  goaded  the  stallion, 
raking  his  flanks.  Wildfire  answered  with  a  scream  and 
a  greater  speed.  All  except  Lucy  and  Sage  King  and 

306 


WILDFIRE 

Wildfire  seemed  so  strange  and  unreal — the  swift  rush 
between  the  pines,  now  growing  ghostly  in  the  dimming 
light,  the  sense  of  a  pursuing,  overpowering  force,  and 
yet  absolute  silence. 

Slone  fought  the  desire  to  look  back.  But  he  could 
not  resist  it.  Some  horrible  fascination  compelled  him. 
All  behind  had  changed.  A  hot  wind,  like  a  blast  from 
a  furnace,  blew  light,  stinging  particles  into  his  face. 
The  fire  was  racing  in  the  tree-tops,  while  below 
all  was  yet  clear.  A  lashing,  leaping  flame  engulfed 
the  canopy  of  pines.  It  was  white,  seething,  incon 
ceivably  swift,  with  a  thousand  flashing  tongues.  It 
traveled  ahead  of  smoke.  It  was  so  thin  he  could  see  the 
branches  through  it,  and  the  fiery  clouds  behind.  It 
swept  onward,  a  sublime  and  an  appalling  spectacle. 
Slone  could  not  think  of  what  it  looked  like.  It  was  fire, 
liberated,  freed  from  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  tremendous, 
devouring.  This,  then,  was  the  meaning  of  fire.  This, 
then,  was  the  horrible  fate  to  befall  Lucy. 

But  no!  He  thought  he  must  be  insane  not  to  be 
overcome  in  spirit.  Yet  he  was  not.  He  would  beat 
the  flame  to  Lucy.  He  felt  the  loss  of  something,  some 
kind  of  a  sensation  which  he  ought  to  have  had.  Still 
he  rode  that  race  to  kill  his  sweetheart  better  than  any 
race  he  had  ever  before  ridden.  He  kept  his  seat;  he 
dodged  the  snags;  he  pulled  the  maddened  horse  the 
shortest  way,  he  kept  the  King  running  straight. 

No  horse  had  ever  run  so  magnificent  a  race!  Wild 
fire  was  outracing  wind  and  fire,  and  he  was  overhauling 
the  most  noted  racer  of  the  uplands  against  a  tremendous 
handicap.  But  now  he  was  no  longer  racing  to  kill  the 
King;  he  was  running  in  terror.  For  miles  he  held  that 
long,  swift,  wonderful  stride  without  a  break.  He  was 
running  to  his  death,  whether  or  not  he  distanced  the  fire. 
Nothing  could  stop  him  now  but  a  bursting  heart. 

Slone  untied  his  lasso  and  coiled  the  noose.  Almost 
within  reach  of  the  King !  One  throw — one  sudden  swerve 

21  307 


WILDFIRE 

•—and  the  King  would  go  down.  Lucy  would  know  only 
a  stunning  shock.  Slone's  heart  broke.  Could  he  kill 
her — crush  that  dear  golden  head?  He  could  not,  yet 
he  must!  He  saw  a  long,  curved,  red  welt  on  Lucy's 
white  shoulders.  What  was  that?  Had  a  branch  lashed 
her?  Slone  could  not  see  her  face.  She  could  not  have 
been  dead  or  in  a  faint,  for  she  was  riding  the  King,  bound 
as  she  was! 

Closer  and  closer  drew  Wildfire.  He  seemed  to  go 
faster  and  faster  as  that  wind  of  flame  gained  upon  them. 
The  air  was  too  thick  to  breathe.  It  had  an  irresistible 
weight.  It  pushed  horses  and .  riders  onward  in  their 
flight — straws  on  the  crest  of  a  cyclone. 

Again  Slone  looked  back  and  again  the  spectacle  was 
different.  There  was  a  white  and  golden  fury  of  flame 
above,  beautiful  and  blinding;  and  below,  farther  back, 
an  inferno  of  glowing  fire,  black-streaked,  with  trembling, 
exploding  puffs  and  streams  of  yellow  smoke.  The  aisles 
between  the  burning  pines  were  smoky,  murky  caverns, 
moving  and  weird.  Slone  saw  fire  shoot  from  the  tree- 
tops  down  the  trunks,  and  he  saw  fire  shoot  up  the  trunks, 
like  trains  of  powder.  They  exploded  like  huge  rockets. 
And  along  the  forest  floor  leaped  the  little  flames.  His 
eyes  burned  and  blurred  till  all  merged  into  a  wide,  pur 
suing  storm  too  awful  for  the  gaze  of  man. 

Wildfire  was  running  down  the  King.  The  great  gray 
had  not  lessened  his  speed,  but  he  was  breaking.  Slone 
felt  a  ghastly  triumph  when  he  began  to  whirl  the  noose 
of  the  lasso  round  his  head.  Already  he  was  within 
range.  But  he  held  back  his  throw  which  meant  the 
end  of  all.  And  as  he  hesitated  Wildfire  suddenly 
whistled  one  shrieking  blast. 

Slone  looked.  Ahead  there  was  light  through  the 
forest!  Slone  saw  a  white,  open  space  of  grass.  A  park? 
No — the  end  of  the  forest!  Wildfire,  like  a  demon, 
hurtled  onward,  with  his  smoothness  of  action  gone, 
beginning  to  break,  within  a  length  of  the  King. 

308 


SLONE  FELT  A  GHASTLY  TRIUMPH  WHEN  HE  BEGAN  TO  WHIRL  THE 
NOOSE  OF  THE  LASSO  ROUND  HIS  HEAD.  ...  AND  AS  HE  HESI 
TATED  WILDFIRE  SUDDENLY  WHISTLED  ONE  SHRIEKING  BLAST 


WILDFIRE 

A  cry  escaped  Slone — a  cry  as  silent  as  if  there  had 
been  no  deafening  roar — as  wild  as  the  race,  and  as  ter 
rible  as  the  ruthless  fire.  It  was  the  cry  of  life — instead 
of  death.  Both  Sage  King  and  Wildfire  would  beat  the 
flame. 

Then,  with  the  open  just  ahead,  Slone  felt  a  wave  of 
hot  wind  rolling  over  him.  He  saw  the  lashing  tongues 
of  flame  above  him  in  the  pines.  The  storm  had  caught 
him.  It  forged  ahead.  He  was  riding  under  a  canopy 
of  fire.  Burning  pine  cones,  like  torches,  dropped  all 
around  him.  He  had  a  terrible  blank  sense  of  weight, 
of  suffocation,  of  the  air  turning  to  fire. 

Then  Wildfire,  with  his  nose  at  Sage  King's  flank, 
flashed  out  of  the  pines  into  the  open.  Slone  saw  a  grassy 
wide  reach  inclining  gently  toward  a  dark  break  in  the 
ground  with  crags  rising  sheer  above  it,  and  to  the  right 
a  great  open  space. 

Slone  felt  that  clear  air  as  the  breath  of  deliverance. 
His  reeling  sense  righted.  There — the  King  ran,  blindly 
going  to  his  death.  Wildfire  was  breaking  fast.  His 
momentum  carried  him.  He  was  almost  done. 

Slone  roped  the  King,  and  holding  hard,  waited  for 
the  end.  They  ran  on,  breaking,  breaking.  Slone  thought 
he  would  have  to  throw  the  King,  for  they  were  perilously 
near  the  deep  cleft  in  the  rim.  But  Sage  King  went  to 
his  knees. 

Slone  leaped  off  just  as  Wildfire  fell.  How  the  blade 
flashed  that  released  Lucy !  She  was  wet  from  the  horse's 
sweat  and  foam.  She  slid  off  into  Slone's  arms,  and  he 
called  her  name.  Could  she  hear  above  that  roar  back 
there  in  the  forest?  The  pieces  of  rope  hung  to  her  wrists 
and  Slone  saw  dark  bruises,  raw  and  bloody.  She  fell 
against  him.  Was  she  dead?  His  heart  contracted. 
How  white  the  face !  No ;  he  saw  her  breast  heave  against 
his!  And  he  cried  aloud,  incoherently  in  his  joy.  She 
was  alive.  She  was  not  badly  hurt.  She  stirred.  She 
plucked  at  him  with  nerveless  hands.  She  pressed  close 

309 


WILDFIRE 

to  him.     He  heard  a  smothered  voice,  yet  so  full,  so  won 
derful! 

"Put — your — coat — on  me!"  came  somehow  to  his  ears. 

Slone  started  violently.  Abashed,  shamed  to  realize 
he  had  forgotten  she  was  half  nude,  he  blindly  tore  off 
his  coat,  blindly  folded  it  around  her. 

"Lin!    Lin!"  she  cried. 

"Lucy —    Oh!  are  y-you — "  he  replied,  huskily. 

"I'm  not  hurt.     I'm  all  right." 

"But  that  wretch,  Joel.     He—" 

"He'd  killed  his  father — just  a — minute — before  you 
came.  I  fought  him!  Oh! ...  But  I'm  all  right.  .  .  .  Did 
you—" 

"Wildfire  ran  him  down — smashed  nim.  .  .  .  Lucy! 
this  can't  be  true.  .  .  .  Yet  I  feel  you!  Thank  God!" 

With  her  free  hand  Lucy  returned  his  clasp.  She 
seemed  to  be  strong.  It  was  a  precious  moment  for 
Slone,  in  which  he  was  uplifted  beyond  all  dreams. 

"Let  me  loose — a  second,"  she  said.  "I  want  to — 
get  in  your  coat." 

She  laughed  as  he  released  her.  She  laughed!  And 
Slone  thrilled  with  unutterable  sweetness  at  that  laugh. 

As  he  turned  away  he  felt  a  swift  wind,  then  a  strange 
impact  from  an  invisible  force  that  staggered  him,  then 
the  rend  of  flesh.  After  that  came  the  heavy  report  of 
a  gun. 

Slone  fell.  He  knew  he  had  been  shot.  Following  the 
rending  of  his  flesh  came  a  hot  agony.  It  was  in  his 
shoulder,  high  up,  and  the  dark,  swift  fear  for  his  life 
was  checked. 

Lucy  stood  staring  down  at  him,  unable  to  compre 
hend,  slowly  paling.  Her  hands  clasped  the  coat  round 
her.  Slone  saw  her,  saw  the  edge  of  streaming  clouds 
of  smoke  above  her,  saw  on  the  cliff  beyond  the  gorge 
two  men,  one  with  a  smoking  gun  half  leveled. 

If  Slone  had  been  inattentive  to  his  surroundings  be 
fore,  the  sight  of  Cordts  electrified  him. 

310 


WILDFIRE 

"Lucy!  drop  down!   quick!" 

"Oh,  what's  happened?    You — you — " 

"I've  been  shot.  Drop  down,  I  tell  you.  Get  behind 
the  horse  an'  pull  my  rifle." 

"Shot!"  exclaimed  Lucy,  blankly. 

"Yes — yes.  .  .  .  My  God!  Lucy,  he's  goin*  to  shoot 
again!" 

It  was  then  Lucy  Bostil  saw  Cordts  across  the  gulch. 
He  was  not  fifty  yards  distant,  plainly  recognizable,  tall, 
gaunt,  sardonic.  He  held  the  half-leveled  gun  ready  as 
if  waiting.  He  had  waited  there  in  ambush.  The  clouds 
of  smoke  rolled  up  above  him,  hiding  the  crags. 

"  Cordts!"    BostiTs  blood  spoke  in  the  girl's  thrilling  cry. 

" Hunch  down,  Lucy!"  cried  Slone.  "  Pull  my  rifle.  . . . 
I'm  only  winged — not  hurt.  Hurry!  He's  goin* — " 

Another  heavy  report  interrupted  Slone.  The  bullet 
missed,  but  Slone  made  a  pretense,  a  convulsive  flop, 
as  if  struck. 

"  Get  the  rifle !     Quick !' '  he  called. 

But  Lucy  misunderstood  his  ruse  to  deceive  Cordts. 
She  thought  he  had  been  hit  again.  She  ran  to  the 
fallen  Wildfire  and  jerked  the  rifle  from  its  sheath. 

Cordts  had  begun  to  climb  round  a  ledge,  evidently  a 
short  cut  to  get  down  and  across.  Hutchinson  saw  the 
rifle  and  yelled  to  Cordts.  The  horse-thief  halted,  his 
dark  face  gleaming  toward  Lucy. 

When  Lucy  rose  the  coat  fell  from  her  nude  shoulders. 
And  Slone,  watching,  suddenly  lost  his  agony  of  terror 
for  her  and  uttered  a  pealing  cry  of  defiance  and  of 
rapture. 

She  swept  up  the  rifle.  It  wavered.  Hutchinson  was 
above,  and  Cordts,  reaching  up,  yelled  for  help.  Hutchin 
son  was  reluctant.  But  the  stronger  force  dominated. 
He  leaned  down — clasped  Cordts's  outstretched  hands, 
and  pulled.  Hutchinson  bawled  out  hoarsely.  Cordts 
turned  what  seemed  a  paler  face.  He  had  difficulty  on 
the  slight  footing.  He  was  slow. 


WILDFIRE 

Slone  tried  to  call  to  Lucy  to  shoot  low,  but  his  lips 
had  drawn  tight  after  his  one  yell.  Slone  saw  her  white, 
rounded  shoulders  bent,  with  cold,  white  face  pressed 
against  the  rifle,  with  slim  arms  quivering  and  growing 
tense,  with  the  tangled  golden  hair  blowing  out. 

Then  she  shot. 

Slone' s  glance  shifted.  He  did  not  see  the  bullet  strike 
up  dust.  The  figures  of  the  men  remained  the  same — 
Hutchinson  straining,  Cordts.  .  .  .  No,  Cordts  was  not  the 
same!  A  strange  change  seemed  manifest  in  his  long 
form.  It  did  not  seem  instinct  with  effort.  Yet  it 
moved. 

Hutchinson  also  was  acting  strangely,  yelling,  heaving, 
wrestling.  But  he  could  not  help  Cordts.  He  lifted 
violently,  raised  Cordts  a  little,  and  then  appeared  to  be 
in  peril  of  losing  his  balance. 

Cordts  leaned  against  the  cliff.  Then  it  dawned  upon 
Slone  that  Lucy  had  hit  the  horse-thief.  Hard  hit!  He 
would  not — he  could  not  let  go  of  Hutchinson.  His  was 
a  death  clutch.  The  burly  Hutchinson  slipped  from  his 
knee-hold,  and  as  he  moved  Cordts  swayed,  his  feet  left 
the  ledge,  he  hung,  upheld  only  by  the  tottering  comrade. 

What  a  harsh  and  terrible  cry  from  Hutchinson!  He 
made  one  last  convulsive  effort  and  it  doomed  him. 
Slowly  he  lost  his  balance.  Cordts's  dark,  evil,  haunting 
face  swung  round.  Both  men  became  lax  and  plunged, 
and  separated.  The  dust  rose  from  the  rough  steps. 
Then  the  dark  forms  shot  down — Cordts  falling  sheer  and 
straight,  Hutchinson  headlong,  with  waving  arms — down 
and  down,  vanishing  in  the  depths.  No  sound  came  up. 
A  little  column  of  yellow  dust  curled  from  the  fatal  ledge 
and,  catching  the  wind  above,  streamed  away  into  the 
drifting  clouds  of  smoke. 


CHAPTER  XX 

A  DARKNESS,  like  the  streaming  clouds  overhead, 
seemed  to  blot  out  Slone's  sight,  and  then  passed 
away,  leaving  it  clearer. 

Lucy  was  bending  over  him,  binding  a  scarf  round  his 
shoulder  and  under  his  arm.  "Lin!  It's  nothing!"  she 
was  saying,  earnestly.  "Never  touched  a  bone!" 

Slone  sat  up.  The  smoke  was  clearing  away.  Little 
curves  of  burning  grass  were  working  down  along  the 
rim.  He  put  out  a  hand  to  grasp  Lucy,  remembering  in  a 
flash.  He  pointed  to  the  ledge  across  the  chasm. 

"They're — gone!"  cried  Lucy,  with  a  strange  and  deep 
note  in  her  voice.  She  shook  violently.  But  she  did  not 
look  away  from  Slone. 

"Wildfire!    The  King!"  he  added,  hoarsely. 

"Both  where  they  dropped.  Oh,  I'm  afraid  to — to 
look.  .  .  .  And,  Lin,  I  saw  Sarch,  Two  Face,  and  Ben  and 
Plume  go  down  there." 

She  had  her  back  to  the  chasm  where  the  trail  led  down, 
and  she  pointed  without  looking. 

Slone  got  up,  a  little  unsteady  on  his  feet  and  con 
scious  of  a  dull  pain. 

"Sarch  will  go  straight  home,  and  the  others  will  follow 
him,"  said  Lucy.  "They  got  away  here  where  Joel  came 
up  the  trail.  The  fire  chased  them  out  of  the  woods. 
Sarch  will  go  home.  And  that'll  fetch  the  riders." 

"We  won't  need  them  if  only  Wildfire  and  the  King—" 
Slone  broke  off  and  grimly,  with  a  catch  in  his  breath, 
turned  to  the  horses. 

3*3 


WILDFIRE 

How  strange  that  Slone  should  run  toward  the  King 
while  Lucy  ran  to  Wildfire! 

Sage  King  was  a  beaten,  broken  horse,  but  he  would 
live  to  run  another  race. 

Lucy  was  kneeling  beside  Wildfire,  sobbing  and  crying: 
"Wildfire!  Wildfire!" 

All  of  Wildfire  was  white  except  where  he  was  red,  and 
that  red  was  not  now  his  glossy,  flaming  skin.  A  terrible 
muscular  convulsion  as  of  internal  collapse  grew  slower 
and  slower.  Yet  choked,  blinded,  dying,  killed  on  his 
feet,  Wildfire  heard  Lucy's  voice. 

"Oh,  Lin!    Oh,  Lin!"  moaned  Lucy. 

While  they  knelt  there  the  violent  convulsions  changed 
to  slow  heaves. 

"He  run  the  King  down — carryin'  weight — with  a  long 
lead  to  overcome!"  Slone  muttered,  and  he  put  a  shaking 
hand  on  the  horse's  wet  neck. 

"Oh,  he  beat  the  King !"  cried  Lucy.  "  But  you  mustn't 
—you  can't  tdl  Dad!" 

"What  can  we  tell  him?" 

"Oh,  I  know.    Old  Creech  told  me  what  to  say!" 

A  change,  both  of  body  and  spirit,  seemed  to  pass  over 
the  great  stallion. 

"Wildfire!    Wildfire!" 

Again  the  rider  called  to  his  horse,  with  a  low  and  pierc 
ing  cry.  But  Wildfire  did  not  hear. 

The  morning  sun  glanced  brightly  over  the  rippling 
sage  which  rolled  away  from  the  Ford  like  a  gray  sea. 

Bostil  sat  on  his  porch,  a  stricken  man.  He  faced  the 
blue  haze  of  the  north,  where  days  before  all  that  he  had 
loved  had  vanished.  Every  day,  from  sunrise  till  sunset, 
he  had  been  there,  waiting  and  watching.  His  riders 
were  grouped  near  him,  silent,  awed  by  his  agony,  await 
ing  orders  that  never  came. 

From  behind  a  ridge  purled  up  a  thin  cloud  of  dust. 
Bostil  saw  it  and  gave  a  start.  Above  the  sage  appeared 

3*4 


WILDFIRE 

a  bobbing,  black  object — the  head  of  a  horse.  Then  the 
big  black  body  followed. 

"Sarch!"  exclaimed  Bostil. 

With  spurs  clinking  the  riders  ran  and  trooped  behind 
him. 

"More  hosses  back,"  said  Holley,  quietly. 

"Thar's  Plume!"  exclaimed  Farlane. 

"An'  Two  Face!"  added  Van. 

"Dusty  Ben!"  said  another. 

"Riderless!"  finished  Bostil. 

Then  all  were  intensely  quiet,  watching  the  racers  conae 
trotting  in  single  file  down  the  ridge.  Sarchedon's  shrill 
neigh,  like  a  whistle-blast,  pealed  in  from  the  sage.  From 
fields  and  corrals  clamored  the  answer  attended  by  the 
clattering  of  hundreds  of  hoofs. 

Sarchedon  and  his  followers  broke  from  trot  to  canter — 
canter  to  gallop — and  soon  were  cracking  their  hard  hoofs 
on  the  stony  court.  Like  a  swarm  of  bees  the  riders 
swooped  down  upon  the  racers,  caught  them,  and  led 
them  up  to  Bostil. 

On  Sarchedon's  neck  showed  a  dry,  dust-caked  stain 
of  reddish  tinge.  Holley,  the  old  hawk-eyed  rider,  had 
precedence  in  the  examination, 

"Wai,  thet's  a  bullet  -  mark,  plain  as  day,"  said 
Holley. 

"Who  shot  him?"  demanded  Bostil. 

Holley  shook  his  gray  head. 

"He  smells  of  smoke,"  put  in  Farlane,  who  had  knelt 
at  the  black's  legs.  "He's  been  runnin'  fire.  See  thet! 
Fetlocks  all  singed!" 

All  the  riders  looked,  and  then  with  grave,  questioning 
eyes  at  one  another. 

"Reckon  thar's  been  hell!"  muttered  Holley,  darkly. 

Some  of  the  riders  led  the  horses  away  toward  the 
corrals.  Bostil  wheeled  to  face  the  north  again.  His 
brow  was  lowering;  his  cheek  was  pale  and  sunken;  his 
jaw  was  set. 


WILDFIRE 

The  riders  came  and  went,  but  Bostil  kept  his  vigil. 
The  hours  passed.  Afternoon  came  and  wore  on.  The 
sun  lost  its  brightness  and  burned  red. 

Again  dust-clouds,  now  like  reddened  smoke,  puffed 
over  the  ridge.  A  horse  carrying  a  dark,  thick  figure  ap 
peared  above  the  sage. 

Bostil  leaped  up.  "Is  thet  a  gray  hoss — or  am — I 
blind?"  he  called,  unsteadily. 

The  riders  dared  not  answer.  They  must  be  sure. 
They  gazed  through  narrow  slits  of  eyelids;  and  the 
silence  grew  intense. 

Holley  shaded  the  hawk  eyes  with  his  hand.  "Gray 
he  is — Bostil — gray  as  the  sage.  .  .  .  An'  so  help  me  God 
if  he  ain't  the  King!" 

"  Yes,  it's  the  King !"  cried  the  riders,  excitedly.  "Sure ! 
I  reckon!  No  mistake  about  thet!  It's  the  King!" 

Bostil  shook  his  huge  frame,  and  he  rubbed  his  eyes 
as  if  they  had  become  dim,  and  he  stared  again. 

"Who's  thet  up  on  him?" 

"Slone.  I  never  seen  his  like  on  a  hoss,"  replied 
Holley. 

"An'  what's — he  packin'?"  queried  Bostil,  huskily. 

Plain  to  all  keen  eyes  was  the  glint  of  Lucy  BostiTs 
golden  hair.  But  only  Holley  had  courage  to  speak. 

"It's  Lucy!    I  seen  thet  long  ago." 

A  strange,  fleeting  light  of  joy  died  out  of  Bostil's 
face.  The  change  once  more  silenced  his  riders.  They 
watched  the  King  trotting  in  from  the  sage.  His  head 
drooped.  He  seemed  grayer  than  ever  and  he  limped. 
But  he  was  Sage  King,  splendid  as  of  old,  all  the  more 
gladdening  to  the  riders'  eyes  because  he  had  been  lost. 
He  came  on,  quickening  a  little  to  the  clamoring  welcome 
from  the  corrals. 

Holley  put  out  a  swift  hand.  "Bostil — the  girl's  alive 
— she's  smilin' !"  he  called,  and  the  cool  voice  was  strangely 
different. 

The  riders  waited  for  Bostil.    Slone  rode  into  the 

316 


WILDFIRE 

courtyard.  He  was  white  and  weary,  reeling  in  the 
saddle.  A  bloody  scarf  was  bound  round  his  shoulder. 
He  held  Lucy  in  his  arms.  She  had  on  his  coat.  A  wan 
smile  lighted  her  haggard  face. 

Bostil,  cursing  deep,  like  muttering  thunder,  strode  out. 
"Lucy!  You  ain't  bad  hurt?"  he  implored,  in  a  voice  no 
one  had  ever  heard  before. 

"I'm — all  right — Dad,"  she  said,  and  slipped  down  into 
his  arms. 

He  kissed  the  pale  face  and  held  her  up  like  a  child, 
and  then,  carrying  her  to  the  door  of  the  house,  he  roared 
for  Aunt  Jane. 

When  he  reappeared  the  crowd  of  riders  scattered  from 
around  Slone.  But  it  seemed  that  Bostil  saw  only  the 
King.  The  horse  was  caked  with  dusty  lather,  scratched 
and  disheveled,  weary  and  broken,  yet  he  was  still  beau 
tiful.  He  raised  his  drooping  head  and  reached  for  his 
master  with  a  look  as  soft  and  dark  and  eloquent  as  a 
woman's. 

No  rider  there  but  felt  Bostil's  passion  of  doubt  and 
hope.  Had  the  King  been  beaten?  Bostil's  glory  and 
pride  were  battling  with  love.  Mighty  as  that  was,  it 
did  not  at  once  overcome  his  fear  of  defeat. 

Slowly  the  gaze  of  Bostil  moved  away  from  Sage  King 
and  roved  out  to  the  sage  and  back,  as  if  he  expected  to 
see  another  horse.  But  no  other  horse  was  in  sight.  At 
last  his  hard  eyes  rested  upon  the  white-faced  Slone. 

"Been  some — hard  ridin'?"  he  queried,  haltingly.  All 
there  knew  that  had  not  been  the  question  upon  his 
lips. 

"Pretty  hard — yes,"  replied  Slone.  He  was  weary, 
yet  tight-lipped,  intense. 

"Now — them  Creeches?"  slowly  continued  Bostil. 

"Dead." 

A  murmur  ran  through  the  listening  riders,  and  they 
drew  closer. 

"Both  of  them?" 

317 


WILDFIRE 

"Yes.  Joel  killed  his  father,  fightin'  to  get  Lucy.  .  .  . 
An'  I  ran — Wildfire  over  Joel — smashed  him!" 

"Wai,  I'm  sorry  for  the  old  man,"  replied  Bostil,  gruffly. 
"I  meant  to  make  up  to  him.  .  . .  But  thet  fool  boy! .  .  . 
An'  Slone— you're  all  bloody." 

He  stepped  forward  and  pulled  the  scarf  aside.  He  was 
curious  and  kindly,  as  if  it  was  beyond  him  to  be  other 
wise.  Yet  that  dark  cold  something,  almost  sullen, 
clung  round  him. 

"Been  bored,  eh?  Wai,  it  ain't  low,  an'  thet's  good. 
Who  shot  you?" 

"Cordts." 

"CordtsI"  Bostil  leaned  forward  in  sudden,  fierce 
eagerness. 

"Yes,  Cordts.  .  .  .  His  outfit  run  across  Creech's  trail 
an'  we  bunched.  I  can't  tell  now.  .  .  .  But  we  had — hell! 
An'  Cordts  is  dead — so's  Hutch — an'  that  other  pard  of 
his.  .  .  .  Bostil,  they'll  never  haunt  your  sleep  again!" 

Slone  finished  with  a  strange  sternness  that  seemed 
almost  bitter. 

Bostil  raised  both  his  huge  fists.  The  blood  was  bulg 
ing  his  thick  neck.  It  was  another  kind  of  passion  that 
obsessed  him.  Only  some  violent  check  to  his  emotion 
prevented  him  from  embracing  Slone.  The  huge  fists 
unclenched  and  the  big  fingers  worked. 

"You  mean  to  tell  me  you  did  fer  Cordts  an'  Hutch 
what  you  did  fer  Sears?"  he  boomed  out. 

"They're  dead — gone,  Bostil — honest  to  God!"  replied 
Slone. 

Holley  thrust  a  quivering,  brown  hand  into  Bostil's 
face.  "What  did  I  tdl  you?"  he  shomted.  "Didn't  I 
say  wait?" 

Bostil  threw  away  all  that  d«ep  fury  of  passion,  and 
there  seemed  only  a  resistless  and  speechless  admiration 
left.  Then  ensued  a  moment  of  silence.  The  riders 
watohed  Slone's  weary  face  as  it  drooped,  and  Bostil,  as 
he  loomed  over  him. 


WILDFIRE 

"Where's  the  red  stallion?"  queried  Bostil.  That  was 
the  question  hard  to  get  out. 

Slone  raised  eyes  dark  with  pain,  yet  they  flashed  as 
he  looked  straight  up  into  BostiTs  face.  "Wildfire's 
dead!" 

"Dead!"  ejaculated  Bostil. 

Another  moment  of  strained  exciting  suspense. 

"Shot?"  he  went  on. 

"No." 

"What  killed  him?" 

"The  King,  sir!  ...  Killed  him  on  his  feet!" 

Bostil's  heavy  jaw  bulged  and  quivered.  His  hand 
shook  as  he  laid  it  on  Sage  King's  mane — the  first  touch 
since  the  return  of  his  favorite. 

"Slone — what — is  it?"  he  said,  brokenly,  with  voice 
strangely  softened.  His  face  became  transfigured. 

"  Sage  King  killed  Wildfire  on  his  feet.  ...  A  grand  race, 
Bostil!  .  .  .  But  Wildfire's  dead— an'  here's  the  King! 
Ask  me  no  more.  I  want  to  forget." 

Bostil  put  his  arm  around  the  young  man's  shoulder. 
"Slone,  if  I  don't  know  what  you  feel  fer  the  loss  of 
thet  grand  hoss,  no  rider  on  earth  knows!  .  .  .  Go  in 
the  house.  Boys,  take  him  in — all  of  you — an'  look 
after  him." 

Bostil  wanted  to  be  alone,  to  weicome  the  King,  to 
lead  him  back  to  the  home  corral,  perhaps  to  hide  from 
all  eyes  the  change  and  the  uplift  that  would  forever  keep 
him  from  wronging  another  man. 

The  late  rains  came  and  like  magic,  in  a  few  days,  the 
sage  grew  green  and  lustrous  and  fresh,  the  gray  turning 
to  purple. 

Every  morning  the  sun  rose  white  and  hot  in  a  blue 
and  cloudless  sky.  And  then  soon  the  horizon  line  showed 
creamy  clouds  that  rose  and  spread  and  darkened.  Every 
afternoon  storms  hung  along  the  ramparts  and  rainbows 
curved  down  beautiful  and  ethereal.  The  dim  blackness 


WILDFIRE 

of  the  storm-clouds  was  split  to  the  blinding  zigzag  of 
lightning,  and  the  thunder  rolled  and  boomed,  like  the 
Colorado  in  flood. 

The  wind  was  fragrant,  sage-laden,  no  longer  dry  and 
hot,  but  cool  in  the  shade. 

Slone  and  Lucy  never  rode  down  so  far  as  the  stately 
monuments,  though  these  held  memories  as  hauntingly 
sweet  as  others  were  poignantly  bitter.  Lucy  never  rode 
the  King  again.  But  Slone  rode  him,  learned  to  love  him. 
And  Lucy  did  not  race  any  more.  When  Slone  tried  to 
stir  in  her  the  old  spirit  all  the  response  he  got  was  a 
wistful  shake  of  head  or  a  laugh  that  hid  the  truth  or  an 
excuse  that  the  strain  on  her  ankles  from  Joel  Creech's 
lasso  had  never  mended.  The  girl  was  unutterably  happy, 
but  it  was  possible  that  she  would  never  race  a  horse 
again. 

She  rode  Sarchedon,  and  she  liked  to  trot  or  lope  along 
beside  Slone  while  they  linked  hands  and  watched  the 
distance.  But  her  glance  shunned  the  north,  that  dis 
tance  which  held  the  wild  canons  and  the  broken  battle 
ments  and  the  long,  black,  pine-fringed  plateau. 

"Won't  you  ever  ride  with  me,  out  to  the  old  camp, 
where  I  used  to  wait  for  you?"  asked  Slone. 

"Some  day,"  she  said,  softly. 

"When?" 

"When — when  we  come  back  from  Durango,"  she  re 
plied,  with  averted  eyes  and  scarlet  cheek.  And  Slone 
was  silent,  for  that  planned  trip  to  Durango,  with  its 
wonderful  gift  to  be,  made  his  heart  swell. 

And  so  on  this  rainbow  day,  with  storms  all  around 
them,  and  blue  sky  above,  they  rode  only  as  far  as  the 
valley.  But  from  there,  before  they  turned  to  go  back, 
the  monuments  appeared  close,  and  they  loomed  grandly 
with  the  background  of  purple  bank  and  creamy  cloud 
and  shafts  of  golden  lightning.  They  seemed  like  senti 
nels — guardians  of  a  great  and  beautiful  love  born  under 
their  lofty  heights,  in  the  lonely  silence  of  day,  in  the 

320 


WILDFIRE 

star-thrown  shadow  of  night.  They  were  like  that  love. 
And  they  held  Lucy  and  Slone,  calling  every  day,  giving 
a  nameless  and  tranquil  content,  binding  them  true  to 
love,  true  to  the  sage  and  the  open,  true  to  that  wild 
upland  home. 


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